Status: Humid and creaky.
Mood: Fed up. Feeling my age.
Calories consumed: Who cares?
Caffeine intake: Nowhere near enough!
I know, I know. I know I said that
I would keep up with you, Dear Diary, and here we are – 12 days since you last
heard from me. It’s not that I don’t think of you (I do, every single day, but that's as far as it goes), it’s
just that life – and heat – has got in the way.
Is
hot in Athens. Very hot. Especially on days when I have to make hour’s train
journey to work, crammed up against assorted body odours, garrulous tourists
heading for the port with giNORmous backpacks as they embark on their “third
world adventure” (which those of us who live and work in Greece call the daily
grind), and a sprinkling of sob stories and egregious accordion players trawling the
carriages for some spare change.
Day
starts with me dithering in front of wardrobe – which outfit will make me sweat
the least? (More to the point, which will look least goddawful when I
inevitably do?). Opt for the pristine white t-shirt and floaty black and white
floral skirt with images of me floating around a Boden catalogue of can-do
elegance and efficiency. Wriggle feet into slip on wedges and head out the door with bag slung
across body and laptop planted on back like some kind of middle-aged mutant
turtle ready for armed combat.
Regret
choice of outfit five minutes after boarding train. Bag and laptop have
wrinkled crisp white t-shirt into an oblivion of wrinkles worthy of New Ager who’s
just returned from an trip to find herself at an Ashram in India. Thighs are
swimming in a thick sheen of sweat, thanks to the train air conditioning about
as effective as five asthmatic teenagers who’ve been chewing polo mints blowing
on the crowded carriage.
Naturally,
standing room for the whole journey, which of course takes half an hour longer
than usual. Achey knee (result of illusions of being Wonder Woman on
various instruments of torture at the gym) screams at me for my stupid choice
of any kind of footwear not as flat as a pancake – or preferably, slippers
appropriate to my age and build.
Arrive
at office looking like a refugee. In lift, try to adjust flattened hair, remove
smudged eyeliner and reapply lippy in the hope of kidding someone – anyone –
that yes, I am a professional and not some stray beggar who wandered in off the
street.
And
so, to work…
Tired
and aching, settle down in front of screen and try to look like I know what I’m
doing.
Summer
in Greece is great, or so they tell me. I’ll let you know when I finally get
the chance to see for myself.
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