Confessions of a Mumbler

When I was a kid, my Dad nicknamed me 'Mumbles' thanks to my habit of muttering things under my breath. Now that he's gone, I feel a little sad that there's no-one left to call me by that name.

Some nicknames have a limited shelf-life. You just grow out of them and what once seemed cool and clever, in time sounds crap and stupid.

When I was at school my little gang of mates called me 'JAM' (a play on my initials) or 'Baggot' (which applied equally to us all). And that was fine, while it lasted. But by the time we went our separate ways after the trials and tribulations of the O levels, they had reached their expiry date. Today, I cringe almost as much at those names as I do at the haircut I had at the time, and I'd be hard-pressed to even tell you what a Baggot is.

But with 'Mumbles', I have actually grown even further into the name as I've got older. Dad obviously knew me well.

What started off as the habit of chatting to myself has developed into a perverse sort of communication tool. Whilst I can still occasionally be caught rehearsing one of those conversations going on in my mind, I now consciously mumble as a way of making people think I know what I'm talking about when I don't.

The idea is that if you talk quickly, clearly and enthusiastically enough, and with the right air of authority or confidence, you can skim over the bits you don't know by half-swallowing the words.

You'd be surprised how effective it can be. It even works in a second language (especially in a second language?).

No matter how long I have been here and no matter how good my Greek gets, there are certain words that I never seem to be able to get my mouth around properly. So, when I know I'm going to have to say one of those dreaded words, I work up to it by building what I am going to say into the context of the conversation and then just mumble an approximation of it when the time comes. Ta-ta!

If I wave my hands around enough (someone once said all you have to do to shut me up is to handcuff me!), the meaning is understood and it doesn't occur to anyone to ask what on earth I am waffling on about.

So, the lesson of the day is: When in doubt, mumble!

By George!

So, today is St George's Day. A day when about one-third of the Greek population celebrates their Name Day, and every red-blooded Englishman or woman proudly boasts his or her heritage.

Or not.

Old George is a popular fella. In addition to being England’s patron saint for some reason (more on that later), he is also celebrated in Bosnia, Bulgaria, Canada, Croatia, Cyprus, Georgia (the clue’s in the name), Greece (of course), Herzegovina, Romania and more, as well as in cities like Genoa (Italy), Beirut (Lebanon), Qormi and Victoire (Malta) and Rio de Janeiro in Brazil.

Getting back to England, it has always struck me as strange how apathetic many of us (including me) are about our patron saint. Let's face it, despite the fact that he slayed a dragon, for goodness sake (no mean feat even in those heroic days of old), we English treat poor old St George a little bit like an embarrassing relative. Like the loopy old aunt you invite over for Christmas dinner ("She's got no-one else in the world, poor dear") who then proceeds to suck all the chocolate off the brazil nuts before putting them back in the box for other guests to enjoy. It's as if going around slaying dragons is really not the "done thing".

Like dear old auntie, St George is acknowledged, even loved, but we English aren't going to go out of our way to advertise his existence.

Not for him the revels our Celtic cousins put on for their saints. Just take a look at St Patrick's Day parades - and more - around the world on 17 March, or heady celebrations in honour of St Andrew by those from north of the border on 30 November. Even the Welsh wave their daffodils and leeks with gusto for St David on 1 March. As for the English, when 23 April rolls round, we read in the paper that it is St George's Day and say "Oh yes, so it is" before going back to the crossword.

That's not to say that English patriotism is dead - it just tends to be most visible at sporting events (at least the ones we manage to win) or by rabid isolationists with a sometimes shaky understanding of history.

Maybe that's the problem? Perhaps patriotism is now seen as the domain of hooligans, and demonstrative English pride is considered rather unseemly in polite society? I suspect that patriotism has been hijacked by those who flaunt their indigenous "British-ness" as a justification for open bigotry and thuggery, making it something rather inappropriate for ordinary moderate-minded folk.

I'm not hugely patriotic - and I wouldn't be caught dead wearing a Union Jack, Cross of St George or any other flag for that matter - but I am very proud of certain things about the English: our sense of humour; our tolerance (or even celebration) of eccentricity; the inexplicable rules of cricket; that our history has woven so many diverse cultural threads into the fabric of society; rolling green fields; Radio 4; our willingness to make fools of ourselves for a good cause; a decent cup of tea.

But as for going nuts in honour of a dead bloke on a horse, it just doesn't happen.

History shows that St George has no real link with our green and pleasant land. He was a soldier of the Roman Empire from Anatolia (modern-day Turkey), who came to be venerated as a Christian AND Islamic martyr. According to legend, when an edict was issued in 303 A.D. authorising the systematic persecution of Christians, George was ordered to take part in the persecution but instead confessed to being a Christian himself and criticised the imperial decision. As a punishment, he was tortured and decapitated, and became a martyr of the early Christian church….

….Hold on a minute, I hear you cry. What about the dragon?

What indeed?

The story of St George slaying the dragon probably first emerged during the Crusades, raising the romantic profile of a saint already revered in the Eastern Church. Apparently, a dragon had made its nest at the spring that provided water to the city of Cyrene in Libya. To dislodge the dragon from his nest for a while to gather water, the citizens had to offer a daily human sacrifice, chosen by lots. All was well, until it was the turn of a princess to be fed to the hungry dragon. Then, out of the blue, came St George (just passing through at a time when the life of a nobly-born maiden was in danger), who slayed the dragon and rescued the princess. The grateful citizens abandoned their ancestral paganism and converted to Christianity....
....and they all lived happily ever after.

Not a smidgeon of a link to England to be found anywhere in the legend.

I'm willing to bet that if it were not for the media reminding us, most English would not remember the exact date of St George's Day. Probably about as many of us who know it was also (very conveniently) the birthday of someone England can justifiably be proud of: good ole Will Shakespeare.

So, do poor old George a favour today and don't just raise a cup of luke warm tea to the Patron Saint of Apathy.

Instead, dust off your rusty schooldays Shakespeare, mutter "Once more into the breach, dear friends", and really think about where you’re going to put your all-important X when (if?) you visit your polling station on 7 May. 

Cast your oh-so-English apathy aside, and don't "Vote for change" (possibly the world's most over-used campaign slogan), just "Vote, for a change".

Season’s bleatings

Right now, I have the armpits of a Wookie.

Most of the time, I can avoid the issue, pretend it doesn’t exist, by refusing to look at the bathroom mirror in those split seconds between peeling off the final inner onion layer of clothing and diving into a hot, reviving shower.

It’s just as well.
By the time the end of the winter is in sight (it is, isn’t it?), what lies beneath those layers is not what anyone would call a pretty sight.

It’s not a matter of body image issues – more the inevitable results of insulating yourself against the cold chill outside (and inside too, in these days of pinched budgets and rising heating bills) for months on end.

Throughout the winter, I have continued to function on all fronts, in every way. I walk, I talk, I even brain-storm, problem-solve and occasionally clean house. But beneath the thermal vest, extra thick tights, leggings, double-thick socks, slipper boots and thick swampy sweater, there’s a neglected maggot-like blob just waiting for the kinder climate to cast off its shackles and flit free on new wings among the weeds poking through the soil in my equally neglected plant pots.

My body is in something like an awakened state of hibernation.
Expanses of pale, pasty skin have taken on the colour of feta forgotten at the back of the fridge for three weeks.
Legs are hairier than my hubby (and he’s Greek!) and could probably harvest enough to knit a small scarf once I finally attack them with His Nibs’ razor.
Knees, elbows and back are in such dire need of exfoliation, I reckon only industrial sand-blasting will do the job.
And toenails that your average Horned Eagle Owl would envy.

It’s been a longer than usual, colder than usual winter here in Athens – and it’s not over yet.

The country too, is still in the grips of one of its longest metaphorical winters in living memory. One that has dampened the warm, exuberant spirit of its people, which has offered few rays of hopeful sunshine for many - despite our enviable summers.

Greece has been suffering from the national state version of SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder) for five long years now. Wrapping itself up in layers of austerity, angst, shame, blame and bitterness – with a smidge of xenophobia thrown in for good measure – the country has bowed its head, buckled down and tried oh-so-hard to stave off the cold blast of an increasingly unfriendly international climate.

The nation is ready for a long-overdue change in the season. People are raising their chins, just a little, in the hope of spying somewhere on the horizon an end to the big chill and some sunny prospects  ahead.

On a personal level, I’m ready for the new season. I can’t wait to cast off my layers and feel the sun and gentle breeze playing on some exposed flesh as I saunter through streets dotted with new growth in the tree branches and window boxes, or sip a Sunday morning budget coffee on a pavement café as I read a book, chat with friends or simply watch the world go by.

I need it. Greece needs it. We all need it.

Bring on the spring. 

The Night Before Christmas: Greece 2014

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A-S_WhinXs8

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the land
Not a civil servant was stirring, no offices manned;
The melomakarona* were laid on the table with care,
In hopes that Kostakis soon would be there;

Little Alexi was nestled all snug in his bed,
Visions of election and power in his head;
Bills to be paid by New Year on the floor,
Light, heat, phone and taxes galore;

                                                                                               

The children left their trigona** untouched,

Knowing their jingling won’t gather much;

The days of profit from their song are no more,

“Na ta poume?”*** most likely to meet a closed door.

Piles of rags in shop doorways shuddered,
No home, no Christmas, they no longer mattered;
Shave-headed trolls were sleeping til Dawn,
With dreams of “Ellas über alles” and burning crosses on lawns;

When out in the street there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon shone weakly through the wood-smoky air,
Giving a hazy view of what I saw there,
And what to my eyes appeared at the gates?
A bullet-proof Mercedes with ministerial plates.

The driver had glasses and he frowned as he muttered,
I thought for a moment it was Harry Potter.
But no, no magic, it was just Samaras,
Waving promises like a priest performing at Mass.

Beside him appeared a fat red-robed elf
Who started to take all our gifts from the shelf;
He had a broad face and a big round belly
That shook when he laughed – yes, it was Vangeli.

I watched as our visitors took gifts from the tree,
To hand over to Troika and cover their fee.
Yiayia and Pappou**** slept on, I should mention,
Worn out from hours in queues for their pension.

With a wave of his hand and a wink of his eye,
Our guest took the coin from our New Year’s Pie.
Yet I knew in the morn he’d be pious in church,
Not giving a jot that we’re left in the lurch.

As I gathered my thoughts and prepared for the morrow,
I decided for one day to put aside sorrow.
So as we head towards Yuletide, I say with good cheer,
“Happy Christmas” to all,
....but to politicians “Ai sihtir!”*****



[Explanatory notes for non-Greek residents and others not in the know:

*Melomakarana are Greek honey traditionally served at Christmas

**Trigona – the musical triangles Greek kids use as a clattering accompaniment to the traditional Christmas carol they sing from door-to-door on Christmas and New Year’s Eves to collect for money (usually for their own pockets, not charity).

***”Na ta poume?” Literally “Shall we sing it?” as a prelude to the Christmas carol once the door has been opened.

****Yiagia and Pappou – Grandma and Grandad

****“Ai sihtir!” is a curse used is Greek (though stolen from Turkish) which roughly translates as “Sod off!”]

Athens rains – and we all get wet

Rain doesn’t suit Athens.
It’s all the concrete that’s the problem, I think.

At least when it rains in London, the green gets even greener (and there’s probably more square metres of green space per capita in London than any other city in Europe), and there’s nothing to beat the smell of Regent’s Park after a shower. The thing is, London was built on the premise of its dampness. Just like Stockholm, which is built on a collection of islands in the Baltic Sea, it’s at peace with the liquid element, its natural habitat.

Athens’ natural habitat, however, is not damp. Its element comes from the Attica Sky all right, but not in the form of raindrops, rather in the form of heat from Apollo, the sun god.

So, when it rains in Athens, it is just not right. Everything looks soggy and grey and uninspired. It's almost as if the city is sulking.

This week has been an especially damp one, starting with some spectacular rainfall on Monday as I was making my way across the city to the office after a couple of weeks off. In the hour it took me to make my way by public transport from Holargos to Piraeus, I reckon it dumped the equivalent of the Aegean Sea on the city - the Attica Sky has been heavy with brooding, dark grey rain clouds. It didn’t take long for new rivers to form in the roads, raging torrents that seeped through the seams of your boots and soaked you from the ground-up, in spite of the brolly you’re gamely carrying.

Athens doesn't handle wet weather well – and nor do its residents. Just one good drenching and the number of cars on the road quadruples, dusty pavements become as slick as skating rinks, traffic grinds to a halt, public services change pace from slow to stop and debris-filled drains explode with gay abandon like geysers. 

Athenians feel cheated when it rains.

Unlike northern Europe, things are not designed for the rain here. Many homes have tile or mosaic flooring – great in the hot summers, but chilly in the wet autumn and winter months. Tumble driers are a rarity, and with more and more people avoiding turning on their radiators due to the past few years of crisis and enforced penny-pinching, there are times you think your washing will rot on the line long before it has the chance to dry.

It was against that sad, grey background that I was making my way to the office, when I suddenly spotted something that changed everything in an instant. Standing in the Metro station was a middle-aged man chatting on his phone – like thousands of other commuters that pass through every day. But in his hand he held a simple bunch of bright yellow roses.

It was the kind of sight that makes you wish your eyelid was a camera shutter, that you could capture that single fleeting image for all eternity.

That simple splash of yellow amid the rain-washed grey of Athens was the kind of image that reminds you that even the most overcast of days holds the potential for colour. It was a sight that… ...on the other hand, somebody better stop me before I start to sound like a bad greetings card.

Meanwhile, the rain goes on, and on, and on...

Bilingual bad language [WARNING: CONTAINS SWEARING – Avert your eyes/ears, Mother!]

There are many advantages to living the life bilingual, but possibly the most delicious one has to do with behaving badly.

Having been brought up in a nice, respectable family in the nice, respectable wilds of deepest Surrey, I’m not much of a potty mouth. 

I’m no angel, of course. The occasional “Shit!”, “Fuck!” or "Bugger!" blurts out, but I usually follow-up by looking round to make sure the Mother Ship isn't listening. As we were growing up, Mum had a zero tolerance policy on swearing, except for "Bugger" which for some reason no-one really understands, she uses frequently and with great gusto and simply doesn't consider it bad language at all, despite repeatedly having the dictionary definition  shoved under her nose. I’m still smarting from the memory of having my mouth washed out with a bar of Lifebuoy soap after sticking two fingers up at her in a fit of pre-teen pique. But to her credit, I grew up surrounded by books and so entered adulthood armed with a vocabulary that lets me express EXACTLY what I feel without resorting to ‘naughty’ words.

But the truth is, there are times when you want to – no, you NEED to – just let rip and turn the air blue.

Enter the joys of speaking Greek.

It’s a great language for letting rip (if you don’t believe me, just pay a visit to the nearest Greek tax office). 

It's a terrific language for obscenity. The Hellenic dictionary of foul language is filled with words that are meaty and fibrous, they fill your mouth (oo-er Missus!) and the satisfy that need within you to tell that *****   ******   ******   who just cut in front of you just what you of think of him – and if you’re in the UK, there’s a good chance he won’t have the foggiest what you just said.

It’s an earthy, colourful tongue filled with heartfelt oaths and insults to help you spill your guts and vent your spleen when you really need to. You can shout out an explosive expletive of “Γαμώ τη πουτάνα μου!” (Translation, to be said in your most measured BBC received pronunciation: Fuck my prostitute), “Τι στο σκατα?” (What the shit?), “Αι σιχτίρ!” (Go to hell - I believe dating back the days when Greece was occupied by the Ottomans) and other delicious γαμοσταυρίδια (assorted obscenities) without making anyone bat an eyelid. 

Back in Blighty, though swearing is pretty mainstream these days, many everyday Greek oaths would be frowned on for their extreme lack of Politically Correctness. Here, they're par for the course - and it’s probably a lot healthier than the British habit of swallowing our bile and letting it fester inside.

It also comes virtually guilt-free for an English import like me. I know it's swearing, but having come to the language as an adult and not an impressionable child, it doesn't really feel like I'm being bad.  

Since slotting my oh-so-British self into Greek society more than two decades ago, I've gained the ability to swear graphically without inflicting an iota’s worth of damage to my ‘good girl’ halo from the land of my birth.

And by assimilating my bilingual vocabulary of bad language I have created something of hybrid, which keeps my Greek Other Half entertained. He still chuckles at the memory of me flying round the house in the early days of our marriage, desperately trying to create a pretense of tidiness for my mother-in-law’s surprise visit, and roaring a frustrated “Oh, bloody, fucking γαμώτο!” as a wardrobe door that refused to stay closed against the pile of scrunched-up clothes stuffed into it.

Greek is great for releasing such frustrations. I’m so glad to have its panoply of obscenities at my disposal. I believe I’m a healthier woman for it (or maybe I just need to be, to deal with some of the practicalities of daily life here?).

But there’s one word that my Greek will never replace. It’s one only a true Brit (or possibly an Aussie) can say convincingly. It’s simple, direct, and conveys utter contempt – especially when delivered in a total dead-pan response.

It is, of course, “Bollocks”.

Celebrating our differences (whilst banging my head against the wall)

I like the Greeks. I love their lust for life, their too loud voices, their sense of community, their connection with their past, their unashamed Mediterranean nature, their appetite for….well, pretty much everything.

Let’s face it, after 25 years here, I’d be a fool (or a masochist) if I didn’t.

I’d like to think that I’m pretty flexible and have assimilated with Greek society, without abandoning my innate Englishness (though my definition  of Englishness is probably very different from that of certain others I could mention – but that’s another story for another day).

But no matter how much well-meaning friends tell me “Ελληνίδα έχεις γίνει” - Translation: You’ve become Greek (I haven’t, just as Uncle Mitsos who’s been living in leafy Surrey for the past four decades hasn’t forgotten to yell “Opa!” and give us an impromptu sirtaki on the dance floor at the drop of a plate), there are some things I will never get used to. Even in those nearest and dearest (and therefore more annoying) to me.

Here are just a few of  the English/Greek differences that never the twain will meet, but which I have somehow had to learn to live with in order to stay sane…  and married.

Timing (or should that be ‘Ti Ming?’)
I am borderline anal-retentive when it comes to time. If I have a date with someone I will be like a frog on hot coals if I am prevented from setting off in good time to arrive at least quarter of an hour earlier than agreed. I have spent many an hour and additional Euros on that extra (solo) coffee whilst I wait for Greek friends to stroll up. It’s taken me more than two decades not to have my suitcase packed and waiting in the corner a full week before any planned travel (but I still have the contents sorted and folded in my head, ready for packing at the earliest point which will not invoke merciless mockery from the Beloved). And I insist on getting to the airport before the Check-In desk has even acknowledged the existence of my flight as a possible future event.

The love of my life is Greek. Actually, in this respect, he’s SuperGreek. His favourite word (and the one that drives me furthest up the walls) is “θα” stuck in front of any verb, indicated that things “will” get done at some vague point in the undefined future. He views my obsession with being ready or arriving early as an amusing foible from which he can derive even more entertainment value by delaying everything as much as possible.

For him, time is not to be managed, but to be filled with a multitude of piffling tasks: making coffee, smoking a fag, enjoying a full body stretch and scratch, staring out the window, smoking another cigarette, checking the weather forecast, phoning his mother, shouting at the television, looking for his lighter….   you get the picture. All the while keeping a sneaky eye on me squirming in the corner as I feel the seconds, the minutes, the hours of the day dripping away to be lost in the sea of time.

It’s not that he doesn’t get things done. He does. But it’s all at the last minute, with all the stress that entails. He’s the King of the Last Minute. And, as it turns out, I must have the constitution of an ox to have survived so far.

Birthdays vs Name Days

I have no Greek Name Day. My name was not handed down to me down the generations to honour my grandmother. It’s not taken from the Bible, or even from Greek mythology. It has a Latin root, and therefore does not feature in the gallery of Greek saints each of which have their own special day of the year.

I do, however, have a birthday. Unfortunately for me, it’s just days before the Other Half’s Name Day which inevitably means lots of well wishes in the first week of December – for him. Whilst I sit there smiling patiently and smiling indulgently, inwarding seething and waiting wanting to scream “Oi! Where’s my cake?” (The answer to which will probably be “You tell us” as it’s the one celebrating who’s supposed to provide the treats.)

Back in the days Before Parenthood, we used to throw a big party to mark my birthday/his Name Day, and I tried – believe me, I did – not to be bothered by the panoply of whisky bottles and other male appropriate gifts that piled up next to the paltry selection of packages from those close enough or thoughtful enough to think of me too.

Though birthdays have become more widely celebrated in the years since I’ve been in Greece, they still play second fiddle to the Name Day, and all too often are barely acknowledged. And if you’re expecting the fanfare, fuss and special cards that are showered on significant birthdays – 18, 21, 40, etc. – in the UK, forget it. And as for special birthday cards, well let’s just say it’s not one of Hallmark’s prime markets.

Oh, and another thing. Don’t fall into the trap of thinking it’s enough to wish your cousin-in-law “Many years!” on his Name Day. If you don’t want to experience a full-blown Greek mama cold shoulder, you’d better make sure you call her to extend your wishes to her too.

Midday, Afternoon, Evening – it’s all relative

In the UK, we think of morning as being any time from when we get up up until 12:00 to be morning. Anything after that is afternoon, unless it’s after 6pm, by which time we’ve moved into evening. Simple,  right?

Think again.
In Greek, midday is usually considered to start at around 3pm and afternoon is probably until at least 8pm. The evening really only kicks off after 10pm.

(Come to think of it, that might be what’s at the root of my timing issues with my Greek friends.)

Coffee – commitment or quick pit stop?

You average Greek can make a coffee last at least forty minutes. I think my record (on a very good day, with extreme effort on my part) is 14. And I’m much better than I used to be, and streets ahead of visiting Brits.

Perhaps it’s because that it’s only in recent years that we Brits (or some of us) have actually learned to make and appreciate real coffee. Most of us chuck the brown stuff down our throats as fast as we can without fatally scalding our gullets.

Greeks make an art of savouring their coffee – especially the thick, rich, grainy Elliniko variety that simply cannot be rushed. Try downing that in a hurry and you’ll find yourself choking on the grinds that collect the bottom of the cup. Believe me, I know. From personal, public and highly embarrassing experience. The trick is to sip it with a slurp and a sigh of satisfaction, in between your animated discussion about politics, football or plans for world domination, or alternating with carefully considered moves in your game of tavli (backgammon to us Barbarians) or loud comments to whoever will listen on what’s written in your morning paper.

I’ll admit that the Greeks have probably got it right on this front – but I just can’t stretch out my cup to Hellenic time. And anyway, I’ll probably be too busy itching to get moving in order to be stupidly early for that appointment to savour the brew.

“You don’t eat no meat? No problem, I’ll make lamb”

It may be a line from “My Big Fat Greek Wedding” but I’ve lived it first hand.

Despite the cornucopia of fresh fruit and veg in their traditional cuisine, most Greeks don’t really consider a meal to be a “real” meal if it doesn’t involve meat in some form or another. I seem that flash of panic in the eyes of friends and family when told I don’t eat meat ahead of some festive gathering. Usually followed by a barrage of incredulous questions about why, how, what (“What? Not even chicken?”) and even puzzlement as they try to reconcile my dietary eccentricity with the fact that I’m built something like an East German shotputter circa 1974.

I always assure the hostess that no special effort needs to be made for me. The contents of the average Greek dinner table usually more than cover my needs – pies, cheeses, salads, and much more. But some take my vegginess as a challenge to their skills in the kitchen. One was a well-meaning aunt who presented me with a beautiful, golden brown, gently bubbling dish of to enjoy while the others tucked into their roast suckling pig. My very own…   ham soufflé.

Don’t bore us, get to the chorus

Greeks love to talk. And Greeks who have attained some position and sense of self-importance love to talk even more. That’s why, almost every public event – from the opening of the school year for a bunch of six-year-olds to a concert staged like the local pensioners’ choir – will have lengthy preludes and votes of thanks topping and tailing the action that you’ve come to see.

This is usually accompanied by me hiding somewhere in the wings or the back of the crowd rolling me eyes at hubby, hissing “Gerroff!” in the direction of the stage and making subtle wrist-slashing gestures, whilst my Other Half gently kicks me and shoots me warning looks that could kill whilst feigning his own show of respect and attention to those droning on and on…  and on.

The “Thank you” minefield

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a rude person. I’m quite polite, if a little impatient. I was brought up to say ‘please’, ‘thank you’ and ‘sorry’ like most middle-England children of my generation.  But even that can be a bit of an issue.

It took my father-in-law many years to stop getting offended every time I said ‘thank you’ for something. And, like most Brits, I say it a lot. I see it as simple courtesy, due to even to those closest to me. He saw it as a cold, formal acknowledgement of something which was taken for granted.

It’s to his credit that he managed to adapt to my habit faster than I managed to quit it.
To be honest, I still haven’t. And it’s not unheard of for me to apologise to a lamppost I’ve walked into.

But despite the differences, I have one big advantage. I’m foreign – and as such there are things I can get away with that my Greek girlfriends would never be forgiven for.

Just don’t tell the mother-in-law.

The English Resident asks: “Read all about…. what?”

Imagine you’re an editor, news editor or reporter on a local newspaper.

Now imagine an anonymous email drops into your In Box. An email written ALL IN CAPITALS and in the language of a slightly obsessed grumpy old man with too much time on his hands. It tells you that a disused school building has become the haunt of junkies and pushers, and a popular dogging spot for illicit couples of all kinds.

What do you do? Do you:

(    a)  Treat it as a news lead?
- Send reporter with a burly photographer (or in these days of downsizing, a reporter with a camera and their scariest looking friend for company/protection) to check it out themselves. Ideally, find some of the druggies who use the building and interview/photograph them, anonymously if necessary. Even if no-one’s about, at least check for signs of recent drug use and free-range orgies.
- Walk round the neighbourhood and ask the locals what’s going on, what they know and if any complaints have been made.
- Talk to the local police chief, ideally quoting him (or her) by name.
- Approach the authority responsible for the building and get a quote from the respective official (named). Even if none is provided, a “No comment” is more telling that a pre-prepared manifesto.
- Make a note in your calendar to follow up the story in the weeks to come.

(    b) Copy/paste the anonymous email rank on the newspaper blog, under a headline liberally decorated with exclamation marks (that’s another rant, for another day) then walk away and leave it to usually anonymous commenters to talk about it among themselves?

or

(    c)  Put it in your ‘cyber spike’ folder and get on with the report of the local football match. [Note: In early-mid 1980s, every reporter’s desk had a ‘spike’ – a small wooden base with a metal spike where they impaled papers they’d either finished with or didn’t plan to use, but which might be needed at a later date.]

I know what I would do. (For the record, in case you hadn't guessed, I'd go for a) or if I came up against a brick wall - reluctantly - c). Anything but publishing unsubstantiated rumours that b) entails.)

But maybe I’m looking at things the wrong way?

I started my working life as a reporter on local newspapers in the UK. That was where I learned that journalism isn’t just a matter of being relatively well-informed and able to turn a fancy phrase or two.

It’s about being curious, asking questions, picking at the scab until you reveal the extent of the story lurking beneath the surface, and following up until you get answers. Sometimes, it means being a pain in the backside, and of course that means developing a thick hide and the ability to brush off personal attacks if something you write hits a nerve.

I learned that the facts and the reported views of involved people (named wherever possible to give credence) are usually more than enough to make a good story, and that there’s no need for the reporter to add their opinion. If it was felt it was a matter that required comment from the paper, it was handed over for the “Leader” column, where readers knew the editor – who they knew by name – stated his view on a story in the news.

Now, I know that much has changed in the years since my reporting days, and so have my circumstances.

We’ve seen the rise of ‘citizen journalism’ due to the instantly accessible nature of the internet, increasing pressure on editors to get material for free (often at the expense of quality and balance) and sometimes – frankly – lazy journalism.

I also now live in Greece, where the tradition of local newspapers is rather different to what I learned all those years ago in that messy, smoke-filled newsroom in South London.

There ARE some local newspapers here that make an effort to present a more balanced and complete form of reportage, and I applaud them. I’m delighted to say that one covering my own neighbourhood falls into that category. But, sadly, many seem to be caught in the  dual traps of antiquated amateurism and the blogosphere.

I know I’ll never be cured of the reporter’s bug, just as my Other Half knows that for the rest of our lives together he’ll be hearing my frequent rants when I see what I consider a failure of journalism – be it in print, online, broadcast, local or national.

But really, is it too much to ask that when a headline screams at me “Read all about it” (note, no exclamation marks required), the words that follow will actually leave me more informed than when I started reading?

High school summer blues

It’s that time of year again.

Throughout Greece, coats and winter woollies have been washed and stowed away in the back of the cupboard. Knees, hairy or smoothly exfoliated, have been unleashed on the world in a flap of Bermuda shorts. The warm night air is filled with the scent of jasmine and the sound of people eating on their balconies. Toddlers are taken out for late night romps around the local park to wear them out before being put to bed. The sensitively-skinned start scratching as the mosquitoes launch their attack. And the less heat-resistant among us are already eyeing the Air Conditioning remote control.

Late spring or early summer is, in many ways, the best time of year to be living here.

Unless you’re a High School student. Or the parent of one.

Around the country, barrels of midnight oil are being burned by teenagers in a masochistic fury of last minute revision for end-of-year exams.

You can tell which ones are the 18-year-olds taking the all-important “Πανελλήνιες” - nationwide exams (more or less equivalent to A levels in the UK) whose results determine whether the will win a place at their University of choice.

They’re the ones with a vague look of disbelieving horror and shell-shock dancing round their dark-ringed eyes as they contemplate what the future holds for them (especially the boys, who still have compulsory military service ahead of them). The ones who occasionally stop and stare into space like a rabbit caught in the headlights of a car for no apparent reason.  Who can be heard shouting out equations and ancient Greek couplets as they grab a few hours of fitful sleep.

And in this land of vicarious living of our offspring’s lives, the parents aren’t in much better shape.

Education is a very big deal in Greece. The Hellenic equivalent of the French Revolution’s “Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité” rallying cry during the reign of the military ‘junta’ was “Ψωμί, Παιδεία, Ελεύθερια” ("Bread, Education, Freedom"). Beyond having food on the table, education is prized above freedom – and that’s saying something in a country where refusing to be told what to do is something of a national pastime.  

Families sacrifice new cars, holidays and money in the kitty for the household bills to pay for extra lessons to supplement what is taught at the state schools. In most middle class homes, even in these desperately cash-strapped times, the thought of your little darling NOT going on to study at Uni, or at least a private college or vocational school, is virtually unthinkable.

Whilst it’s hardly surprising that about 84% of all Greeks aged between 15 and 19 are in full-time or part-time education (this IS Europe, after all), the figures for 20-29 year-olds is perhaps rather more telling. According to the OECD (Organisation for Economic Cooperation & Development) report “Education at a Glance: 2012”, a little over 40% of all Greeks in their twenties are in full- or part-time education. That’s way above the OECD average of about 27%, the USA (approximately 26%) and the United Kingdom with around 18%.

About 15% of all Greeks hold a University degree – and that includes the toothless black-clad grannies you took snaps of in that quaint Cretan village you visited on holiday last year.

There’s an enormous burden on 18-year-olds to do well in exams and win a coveted place in one of the country’s Universities – even if they don’t know what to do with the degree once they get it. But only one in four get in. The others usually end up attending private, post-secondary educational institutions that are not recognised by the Government.

But….  a degree, is a degree, is a degree. Or so I’m told.

I know people with degrees in Agricultural Science keeping the accounts for small family firms, Computer Programming graduates trying to make ends meet with dubious pyramid selling schemes and Psychology majors working on supermarket check-outs. Greece 2014 is a little like a skewed version of Hollywood - instead of every waitress or bus boy being a starlet waiting to be discovered, here they’re highly qualified graduates waiting for the chance to put their hard-earned knowledge to good use as they clean out the cappuccino magazine or bring you’re your iced tea.

Yesterday, on the first day of the Πανελλήνιες, an 18-year-old in northern Greece left the family home to sit the first of this year’s exams. Just like thousands of others young men and women around the country. Unlike most of them, he never reached the examination hall. Instead, he went to the sixth floor of the building next to his school – and threw himself off.

(Just writing that makes me go cold, despite the fact that it’s nearly 30 degrees C outside.)

Presumably, the pressure of the exams was not the only thing he and his family were facing. Who knows what other demons he was fighting? But it seems that the prospect of the exams and an uncertain future were the cherry on the cake that the poor lad just couldn’t swallow.

It’s a chilling reminder to us all that no matter how important education is – and believe me, it IS - life itself is more precious than any exam result or first class degree.

And perhaps it’s also a wake-up call for all us parents, telling us to listen to our kids instead of expecting them to live the dreams we had but never made reality?

A very civilised revolt (or how an Army of the Ordinary might just change things)

There’s something not quite ‘right’ going on in a quiet, respectable northern suburb of Athens. As Sunday’s local elections draw closer, a group of people in Papagou-Holargos are refusing to play by the rules. They’re not toeing the line (not even the party one). They’re kicking against the expected and doing things their way - not the way it’s “always been done” simply because – well – that’s the way it’s always been done.

They’re an unlikely band of rebels: teachers, accountants, scout leaders, small businessmen, cyclists, lawyers, insurance salesmen, amateur photographers, bank workers, the occasional artiste thrown in for good measure, housewives, even well-behaved students who listen to their mum when she tells them not to wear that unironed shirt. They don’t want to get mixed up in politics – they want to lead a quiet life, not to rock the boat.

They’re certainly not the type you’d expect to challenge the status quo. Let’s face it, they ARE the status quo – or at least the foot soldiers of the system.

And that’s precisely why they stand a chance of changing things.

Their rivals are gleefully plastering anything that stands still (including poor old Uncle Mitsos who’s not as fast on his feet as he was back in his 1950s heyday) with posters bearing giant leering heads assuring you that they are the best man for the Mayor’s chair. They’re creating interesting new landscapes of leaflets stacked up like snowdrifts against every front door, fluttering gently on car windscreens and being kicked along the street by unseeing feet.

Their rivals are investing bucketloads of dosh to ensure their election with slick, polished brochures filled with images of perfect people sitting in perfect settings. They’ve invited paid stars to perform to a packed open air theatre and boost their headcount for their main speech. And the Photoshoppers’ fingers have been rubbed raw by all the work to make the candidates look like the perfect people in the pamphlets.

Meanwhile, down at ‘8 Proposals’ Central, it’s the assorted volunteered expertise of the candidates and their supporters that have produced their brochure which spells out each of the central proposals. And the musical support for their main speech came from talented, but unpaid, young bands from the neighbourhood.

The central image of their campaign is NOT their main man, but a rainbow of eight colours, each representing a way in which they plan to change things for the better.

They’re talking about their set of clearly defined policies they plan to put in action to make their everyday lives easier, and help everyone in the neighbourhood in the process.

They’re talking about Electronic Governance & Democracy to sidestep the tortuous bureaucracy for which Greece is notorious.

They’re talking about Studies backed up with real facts before starting any new projects, to make sure the plans won’t have to be torn up and work go back to the drawing board after half the funds have already gone.

They’re talking about Public Transport and viable mobility for residents.

They’re talking about Open Schools to support students, offer lifetime learning opportunities and make full use of school facilities.

They’re talking about Social Policy and Health to make sure that no resident, old or young, is left alone and helpless.

They’re talking about Local Development and Place Branding, so they can share with the world what they love most about their neighbourhood and invite them in to enjoy it with them.

They’re talking about supporting the Arts to add another dimension to lives that might otherwise be nothing beyond the work-home-work-home vicious circle.

And they’re talking about Sport for All.

They’ve even worked out where they’re going to get the money for all that.

No wonder their rivals aren’t happy.

“What a load of weirdoes!”, I hear you say. But that’s precisely why I’m on their side. They’re a ‘can do’ team, determined to overcome the pessimism of Greece’s harsh recent reality with the optimism of “Yes, we CAN do this!”. After all, it’s the crazy ones who believe in their vision and back it up with common sense and a solid plan that can make the difference.

Ever since I arrived in Greece a quarter of a century ago, I have been seeing things I didn’t like. Not the people, nor the place – they’re what brought me here and, more importantly, what made me stay. I’m talking about the way things are done – creaking systems that mean you have to take a full day off work to get up at the crack of dawn, stand in line for four hours, only to be told you’re in the wrong place and you need to go to the third floor where the Department head will ink his official stamp and grace your piece of paper with it, in order to come back down to stand in queue again for the scrap of paper you’ve been told you need to get something done.

Perhaps I was spoiled by my UK upbringing, but I couldn’t resist saying “This is nuts! Why don’t they do it THIS way?”. The answer was always  “Τι να κάνουμε, κορίτσι μου?“ (Rough translation: “What can we do, my girl?”) with an unmistakably Mediterranean shrug and eyes raised to the ceiling. “This is Greece. That’s the way it is here.”

It made me want to bash my head against the wall in frustration (I still have the scar just above my left eyebrow to show for it).

That’s why the '8 Proposals' crew caught my attention. They’re everyday, low profile, just-want-to-get-on-with-our-lives, respectable people – neither rich nor poor – making a stand to challenge the “That’s just the way it is” stance that has led to stagnation, and worse, in most aspects of Greek public life.

They have no political party allegiance. In fact when one of the major parties approached offering to lend their support they were firmly, but politely, told “No thank you”.

They are not headed by a quasi-Messianic figure promising to lead them into the Promised Land. Instead, there’s the undoubtedly charismatic but far from God-like local newspaper editor – a man who knows the workings of the local administration inside and out. His picture is not photoshopped – unlike some of his rivals who appear (at least in their election literature) to have the perfect skin of untouched virgins who bathe every day in asses’ milk, despite their five decades or more of hard living. Haris Kouyioumtzopolous smokes like a chimney, could stand to lose 20 kg, often shouts too much and usually laughs too hard. But he’s real. And he knows his stuff. He’s flawed, and he knows it. But he cares about things – perhaps a little too much sometimes.

They have no dogma or manifesto. This Army of the Ordinary is not united by a common ideal drawn up by a Victorian with a starched collar and flowing locks 150 years ago, or by the cogs that drive the wheels of capitalism. They have all benefited in their own small way from the market economy, just as they have from some aspects of socialism. No party line, or ideological anthem, brings them together. Just the desire to make the place where they live better.

They’re selfish. They’re not standing for office because of their deep desire to serve the community, or their need to offer something, or because of their “deep seated passion for the place of their birth”. They’re doing it – quite simply – because they’re sick and tired of others making a pig’s ear of the ways things are done.

In England and in the States, we call this ‘grass roots politics’. Greece has no such tradition. Politics, local and national, is dominated by dogmas and dynasties, vested interests and promised or expected favours. And it has survived because people have let it. After all “This is Greece”.

But maybe, with the ‘8 Proposals for Papagou-Holargos’, the time might just have come for those grass roots to start sprouting here?