Tuesday, July 15, 2014

Tuesday, 15 July - Summertime sloven

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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