tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3985067950394793342024-03-19T06:54:11.823+02:00The Resurrected Ramblings of a Transplanted Brit Chick, aged 49 & a bitAdrian Mole grew up, Bridget Jones left her Singleton status behind, and we have all reached the Age of Reason. Or so they tell us. I keep thinking about having a mid-life crisis, but I never seem to have the time.
The Secret Diary of a Transplanted Brit Chick, aged 44 and 3/4, reborn five years later as the big 50 looms large on the horizon...She Means Well...http://www.blogger.com/profile/11606884423689767178noreply@blogger.comBlogger34125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398506795039479334.post-80246012634125098102014-07-16T00:19:00.001+03:002014-07-16T00:26:05.631+03:00Tuesday, 15 July (evening) - Things improved as the sun went down<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><i><b>Status: </b>Retouched and defuzzed.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><i><b>Mood: </b>Better than this morning!</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><i><b>Calories consumed: </b>Middling, but they were prepared by No.1 and Only Son, so that's a win)</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><i><b>Blood spilled:</b> None (miraculously)</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">After ratty mood and general discontent with the world, and fellow passengers on Athens public transport this morning, things have improved. But not before arriving home after my return trip, soaked in sweat, with someone else's chocolate smeared on white t-shirt <i>(if I'm gonna get choccy stains, I at least want to be the one who put them there!)</i> and feet screaming in protest at yet another crowded journey breathing other people's souvlaki fumes and having toes trodden on. Oh the joys.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Ignore aches and pains and pull on sweaty sweat pants and top, in order to make them even sweatier with sesh at the gym (yes! am Superwoman, despite wobbling buttocks and protesting knee). Back home, sit down to plateful of spaghetti in tomato and basil sauce from the fair hand of Kidlet. Am seriously impressed that pasta is cooked and sauce tasty.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Hit the bathroom to rinse every trace of the gym off me, but end up giving myself the works.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Success - roots touched-up without giving cat an interesting new look, despite his insistence to stick his nose in every I do. <i>(Last time I dyed my hair, Stoopid Cat got a punkish splodge of orange on the top of his oh-so-nosy head after leaping into shower as I rinsed off)</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Even more success - manage to shave legs without adding pint of own blood to the gory red splashes in the bathtub after my home colouring effort.<br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Clean up every last splash of purply-red blobs scattered around bathroom, except for a spot on the mat. Artfully rearrange mat and pray that Ovver Arf won't notice. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Am domestic goddess, supremely groomed and expert trainer of male offspring.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Not a bad note on which to head for bed. Night all! </span><br />
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She Means Well...http://www.blogger.com/profile/11606884423689767178noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398506795039479334.post-54831351651100385182014-07-15T11:39:00.003+03:002014-07-15T11:43:23.409+03:00Tuesday, 15 July - Summertime sloven<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 10pt;">Status:</span></i></b><span class="apple-converted-space"><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 10pt;"> </span></i></span><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 10pt;">Humid and creaky.</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 10pt;">Mood:</span></i></b><span class="apple-converted-space"><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 10pt;"> </span></i></span><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 10pt;">Fed up. Feeling my age.</span></i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 10pt;">Calories consumed:</span></i></b><span class="apple-converted-space"><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 10pt;"> </span></i></span><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 10pt;">Who cares?</span></i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 10pt;">Caffeine intake:<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span></i></b><span class="apple-converted-space"><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 10pt;">Nowhere near enough!</span></i></span><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">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>(I do, every single day, but that's as far as it goes)</i>, it’s
just that life – and heat – has got in the way.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And
so, to work…<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Tired
and aching, settle down in front of screen and try to look like I know what I’m
doing.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">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.</span></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
She Means Well...http://www.blogger.com/profile/11606884423689767178noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398506795039479334.post-89820396816313916892014-07-04T00:19:00.006+03:002014-07-04T00:19:57.483+03:00Thursday, 3 July 2014 – Everywoman, everything, everywhere<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Status:</span></i></b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">
All-round wonder woman.</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Mood:</span></i></b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">
Invincible…. sort of.<o:p></o:p></span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Calories consumed:</span></i></b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> I
might be within my limit. Possibly.<o:p></o:p></span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Calories used:</span></i></b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">
About 10 litres of sweat worth.<o:p></o:p></span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Alcohol: </span></i></b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">On
third large glass of rose (say no more)<o:p></o:p></span></i></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Start day ready for whatever's coming my way. Plenty of work
waiting in In Box when I log in at 7.30am <i>(Yay! Am not obsolete!)</i>. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Good
news? Working from home today, so dive in without having to worry about putting
on clothes fit for human consumption, combing hair, applying a trowel’s worth
of Polyfilla and slap to face, and boarding to Love Train to the office. Bad
news? </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Two hours later, am still sitting in sweaty nightdress, without benefit of underwear, gently oozing onto my seat as the day’s heat ramps up. Am personification of slatterness.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Remember hearing on news that Greek power company's planned
power cuts due to employees’ strike in protest at privatisation plans. No
warning of when, or for how long, in Athens. Decide to make the most of power
while we still have it, and make family lunch at breakfast time. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Pulled away from kitchen by insistent <i>“ding!”</i> of new emails dropping
like a summer shower into In Box. Try to type replies with elbows as fingertips covered with mixture of feta, cream cheese, mint and olive oil.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Yes, ladies. You too can have it all!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Cheese pie slapped in oven with a prayer to Patron Saint of the
Incomplete Hostess to give it time to cook before plunging us back into the electricity-free
Dark Ages. Lick filling off fingers, thanks heaven it’s not a fast day, and
wipe hands on cat.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Throw cat hair and cheese pie filling covered nightdress in laundry
basket and step into shower to rinse the 30 degree heat off gorgeous
middle-aged bod. Cat sits on side of bath blinking at me with the
critical eye of a Weight Watchers’ meeting coordinator. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Wonder if cats have cellulite under all that fur?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Step out of shower, smelling like a sweetshop (pistachio and gardenia
shower cream), shake hair into mop-like shape and throw on knickers and slob
clothes to tackle emails dinging merrily away in the lounge. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Smell of burning reminds me of pie in oven. Race down corridor to kitchen, tripping
over cat in the process, throw over door open and grab pie dish. Ouch! (Note to
self: You have oven gloves for a reason). Carve blackened tips of fyllo pastry off top
and resolve to tell the menfolk it’s mean to look that way.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Nursing blistered thumb and forefinger, return to laptop and professional career woman mode, safe in the knowledge no-one can see me. Race
through online stuff, leaving other tasks for when the lights go out.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">No.1 Son officially on holiday and in Teenage Slob heaven. Rolls out
of bed (miraculously making it in the process!) and meanders into the kitchen
mumbling something about coffee. Cheery response of <i>“Yes please, darling!”</i> ignored.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">OH also joins land of the living, throwing a grunt of testosterone in my
direction as he wonders past in saggy grey boxer shorts <i>(must point him in direction of Athens branch of Marks & SparksVERY soon)</i>. Who says romance is dead after the
first two years?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Day passes in a blur of emails, absently gobbled plate of rescued cheese pie and a
soundtrack of “Uncharted” on the Playstation. No.1 and band mates start jamming
in next room just as I tackle article that needs to be cut down to 500 words
from 1,200. Just what I needed – inspiration!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Purse lips, bite tongue and soldier on. They’ve got a live show
tomorrow, so must be understanding. Must also decide what to wear to gig that’s
suitably “rock mama” without signaling utter humiliation for only child
(tempting though the thought is).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Close laptop, change into sweats and head for gym to produce body weight
in perspiration (dear old dad used to say <i>“Horse sweat, men perspire, ladies
glow”</i>. Am glowing like a pig by time I get back home).<br />
<br />
Just call me woman for all seasons, folks. Wife, mother, career woman, gourmet
cook, exercise guru…. sort of.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Celebrate spent calories with cheese sarny and a fresh bottle of wine. I've earned it, right?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Start stressing out what to wear as the oldest groupie in town tomorrow night.
By end of second glass, no longer care – and bed is looking extremely attractive.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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She Means Well...http://www.blogger.com/profile/11606884423689767178noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398506795039479334.post-58361684244864174582014-06-29T22:06:00.000+03:002014-06-29T23:06:30.499+03:00Sunday, 29 June 2014 - Kicking off<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Status</span></i></b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">: Defuzzed.
Sticky.</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Mood: </span></i></b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Even
stickier.<o:p></o:p></span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Home front:</span></i></b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">
Bristling with anticipation.<o:p></o:p></span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Immediate outlook: </span></i></b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Ball
shaped. Possibility of explosions of mad joy spilling onto streets, or epidemic
of dejection, round about 1am.<o:p></o:p></span></i></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Alcohol consumed:</span></span></i></b><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> Two
Zorba-sized glasses – and counting.</span><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Right, must get my soccer brain plugged in. I know it’s here somewhere,
probably hiding under the pile of old ‘National Geographic’ magazines I saved
all those years ago with noble intentions to using them to enlighten No.1 &
Only as he grew into manhood (turns out, he only ever turned to them to
cut out photos for a mood board he had to make for school – but it’s something,
I s’pose). </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Football’s not my thing, but not joining in the national obsession
tonight would probably mean divorce, and possibly deportation, so I have to
feign enthusiasm – even if I still don’t know (or care about) the intricacies
of the off-side rule.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The Other Half knows I don’t do footy, but am expected to join in when
the shebang kicks off at 11pm. Might as well, not much chance of getting any
sleep during the game anyway. It's summer, windows wide open, all Greeks getting ready
to watch in living rooms, on balconies, etc. Prepare for inevitable sounds of
cheers, groans, colourful curses, shouted advice to coach or ref in Recife and
more. Likely to be fireworks and car horns if Greece get the ball in the net or
even win.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Have ingratiated self with OH to compensate for lack of soccer expertise. Sunday lunch like Mama makes it served
up, family favourite Macaroni Pie made for tomorrow AND ironing done (can hear my inner feminist having a hissy fit as we speak). Even managed to sneak in a
brief ironing lesson for No.1 – he ironed a whole T-shirt, pair of jeans and
ragged shorts. Am uber-domestic goddess and super-parent <i>(shame I also had the
urge to throw iron at OH’s head)</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Prepare for tonight’s likely invasion of male hormones – and the week
ahead, with a bit of hair removal. Summer’s here, limbs and more on show. Must
not resemble Yeti in a bikini when we finally hit the beach.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Armpits easy. Whip out the trusty Gilette disposable and OH’s can of
foam and <i>bish-bash-bosh</i>, clean as a
whistle – except where I nicked that mole in my haste to get finished. For
legs, however, want something smoother and longer lasting. Enter box of
pre-waxed strips sitting patiently in bathroom cabinet. What they don’t tell you in the adverts, or
even on the side of the box, is that summer – the time you most want to be
smooth and hairless – is the worse time to use them. But am smart, can see that
wax might get gooey in 30 degrees heat, so bung them in the fridge til I need
them. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Spread towel on kitchen floor, strip from waist down to saggy, greying
Marks & Sparks knickers, and begin. All goes well as I take the strips out
and plaster them to my shins. Cat sits a safe distance away, blinking like a Buddha
and waiting for the human show. Move along animal, nothing to see here.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">First leg covered. Time to rip off the strips, and every trace of
unwanted here with them. Check box : <i>“Grasp
firmly between thumb and forefinger and tug sharply against direction of hair
growth”</i>. Easy-peasy, lemon squeezy. Try to tug sharply. Instead of a clean rip
and removal of plastic covered with carpet of hairs, hear a ‘slurp’ and look
down to see sticky strands of good like honey bridging gap between leg and
strip. Gloop. Yuck. Hairs all still firmly in place, gloating at me from
beneath the melted wax. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Inventive if nothing else, I plaster the strip back in place, throw open
freezer door, grab bag of frozen peas and clutch against sticky strip. Stephen
Hawking would be proud of me. Hold
firmly til peas start going mushy and leg goes numb. Grasp, tug and…. Voila! Result. One strip of goo covered in
hairs. Repeat 15 times til both calves hair free, smooth and dotted with tiny
bleeding pores. Reach for special oil to remove sticky residue – but cat beats
me to it and rubs up against good spattered legs, leaving more hairs than I’ve
removed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Bottle of olive oil, three showers and an exiled cat later, am finally
smooth and goo-free, ready to cheer on the Greek team (of football supporters,
not the actual national team) when they meet Costa Rica. Will be perfect hostess,
offering drinks, snacks and entertaining assorted menfolk with intelligent
enquiries about game <i>(“Why do goalkeepers
wear different coloured shirts?”… “Why aren’t the strips simply big versions of
national flags?” “When is a foul not a foul?”…)</i> . Anything to avoid
actually watching 22 men in shorts running around a field trying to herd a ball
into a string vest stretched between two posts.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Wincing as my jeans chafe against the thousands of little blood spots on
my calves, but armed with a bottle of red and a family-sized bag of crisps, resign myself to
evening of balls and boys talking balls. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Just hope they win. <br />
Joyous Greeks are a noisy lot, likely to keep me from my much needed beauty
sleep until at least 3am if they win tonight – but there’s nothing sadder or
more misery drenched and conspiracy-minded than a defeated one.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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She Means Well...http://www.blogger.com/profile/11606884423689767178noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398506795039479334.post-36043999961011175752014-06-27T15:00:00.003+03:002014-06-27T15:00:35.950+03:00I'm back!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i><b>Status: </b>Back in the "Brit Chick" saddle after five years of radio silence.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i><b>Mood: </b>Nostalgic</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i><b>To Do List: </b>Never-ending</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i><b>Carbs craved: </b>A mountain sized stack of Cheesy Wotsits worth.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i><b>Carbs consumed (so far):</b> Two spoonfuls of sawdust - sorry,muesli. (Cue forced cheer of "You go girl!")</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Dear Diary,<br /><br />Remember me? That middle-aged bint you last heard of the day she turned 45?<br /><br />I know, I know. Where the hell have I been? What happened? Why did I desert you?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">(Answers are, in order: I've been here all along; Five years of Greek financial crisis and all the fun that has brought; No excuses - just a load of grovelling and cries of <i>"Mea culpa"</i>).</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Well, I'm been missing you for a while now. And now, after 15 false starts like those nearly made phone calls to your former best friend after she's vowed never to speak to you again thanks to a phenomenal foot-in-mouth on your part, I've decided it's time we got reacquainted.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I still here, in Greece. Older, yes. Poorer, definitely. Wiser, who knows? But still clinging on to with tzatziki-smeared fingertips. <br /><br />OH (the Other Half, in all his magnificent hairy Greekness) is a house husband these days - by way of circumstances, not choice - and has developed a mild manic-obsession with clean floors. Now have lovely clean floors, and lots of homespun <i>'nevra'</i> borne of wounded male pride. <br /><br />No.1 (and only) Son is now almost a man, hogging the bathroom daily to make the point. He's a veteran of amateur rock gigs (on stage with the boys - and girl - from his band, Bazzinga) and that means he virtually sleeps with his guitars, and I'm a front-runner for 'Oldest Groupie in Town" 2014.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Mummy Dearest (MD) is still going strong back in Blighty, keeping me up to date with News From the Homeland, but Li'l Sis is now living the life of Heidi in Switzerland. Just a matter of time before she starts yodelling. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The Three Graces - my oldest friends - have been whittled down to Two after <i>Ffaenella The Fragrant</i> decided she no longer wanted anyone from our family in her life. But <i>Welsh Fran</i> and <i>Georgy</i> more than make up for her absence with daily doses of madness to keep me this side of sanity <i>(I didn't say which side "this side" is, did I?)</i>.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Five years on, MIL (Mother in Law) and FIL (Father in Law) are still bickering like only a devoted Greek couple of nearly five decades can. MIL still hasn't given up on converting me. FIL still bristles his moustaches in my direct when he thinks I've getting too bolshy (approx. five times a week). </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But there's a new addition. Joker da Kat (a.k.a Stoopid Cat), who OH rescued from a rubbish bin when he still had his umbilical cord attached (the cat, not OH). Looks like a feline Friesland cow, thinks he's a noble warrior, is terrified of the vacuum cleaner (or <i>'Box of Screaming Demons'</i>) and thinks affection is expressed with jaws and claws. Sleeps 20 hours a day, more when in hiding, and spends the rest of his time bounding off the walls in pursuit of flies, sunbeams or toes. Has never met another cat - God knows what will happen when he does.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So there you go... still hanging on, hurtling towards menopause, battling biddie-dom in a bid to make 50 "FABuolous!" a la Samantha in <i>"Sex & The City"</i> (who I bet never had to wipe cat sick up from floor, or iron the 386 t-shirts a teenage boy gets through in a week).</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Glad we got acquainted again. And I promise I WON"T be a stranger. May my boobs bounce off my knees, hair dye turn my head puce and whiskers the thickness of Ashanti spears sprout from my chin if I don't keep you up to date with my doings, comings and goings.<br /><br />Must rush. Summer's arrived with a vengeance - and that means shaving legs and hunting for strapless bras that don't make me look like an ogre with a couple of ice cream cones glued to its chest. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Wish me luck!</span><br />
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She Means Well...http://www.blogger.com/profile/11606884423689767178noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398506795039479334.post-14058386285269766252009-12-02T15:43:00.004+02:002009-12-02T16:15:45.185+02:00Older:Yes. Wiser:?<em><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><strong>Status:</strong> Officially older, not necessarily wiser</span></em><br /><em><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><strong>Mood:</strong> Overwhelmed</span></em><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Well, it's official. I can no longer say I'm in my early 40s. Or even live up to the claim of 44 and 3/4 my blog title claims. </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Doesn't help that the nice girl in the pharmacy I ask for a good face cream hands me one for "mature skin" <em>(would it hurt them to call it "wiser"?)</em>. </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Undaunted, am determined to be cheerful, upbeat and positive on my birthday. Chocolate eclairs and macaroons bought to share at office help (yum). </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><strong><em>[Note to self: Sweets bought to SHARE with well-wishing colleagues]</em> </strong></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Open up computer to a flood of well-wishers, including a message from Welsh Fran, loopy childhood friend who declares to world of Facebook that I'm <em>"one of the most lovable, crazy, gorgeous people on the Franplanet"</em>. </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Think (hope) that's a compliment....</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Day passes in a blur of good wishes from more people than I have years on the clock, and a flurry of work (they had to pick today to get me busy?), then it's off home on the train-bus-train-metro-bus samba.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Two-and-a-half hours later, walk through front door to find No.1 dodging homework and Sister-in-Law and neices bubbling excitedly round the flat. SIL fails to twig significance of day despite Kiddo saying <em>"Happy Birthday Mum"</em> and me opening cards in post... </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">....only when I explain combination code on lock of the cherry red suitcase I'm lending her for her first trip to London do her eyes goggle and jaw drops. </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Enter OH, armed with a bunch of roses, badly-written but loving card - and a killer migraine. So, a quiet night in then. <em>(He'd better make it up to me at the weekend!)</em></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Treat myself to spicy noodles with sweet chilli and cashews... ...but candles keep falling over into the gloop, so give in and pig out.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Here's to the next 45 years!</span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span>She Means Well...http://www.blogger.com/profile/11606884423689767178noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398506795039479334.post-57096381109430531572009-11-27T08:30:00.002+02:002009-11-27T08:50:09.306+02:00In Conversation with Kidling Grand<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Having kids adds slightly surreal dimension to life, leaving well-intentioned parents bemused, confused... and usually amused. I had one of those conversations with 12-year-old Kidling Grand (a.k.a. No.1 & Only Son) last night:</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><strong>He:</strong> <em>"Ooh Mum, look what's on the telly. The world's tallest man is in Greece and he's looking for a wife."</em></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><strong>Me:</strong> <em>"Too late, I'm already married and I really don't fancy another wedding."</em><br /><strong>He:</strong> [shooting withering look in my direction] <em>"We should introduce him to Ilias in Year 3 at my school. He's already over two metres tall."</em></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><strong>Me:</strong><em> "Um, isn't Ilias a BOY??"</em></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><strong>He:</strong> <em>"Who knows?" </em>[shoots me a wicked grin, grabs another hunk of bread and scoots off to bedroom to twiddle with leccy guitar]</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">But this is the same child (does he still qualify as a child with 13th birthday just 2 months away?) who started telling me the story of a Superhero/God named.... Guildford. </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">He didn't get very far, just looked in amazement as Mum rolled around on floor, in fits of helpless giggles. If I'd stopped to listen maybe I'd have learned something about the Arch Villain Leatherhead, his legions of evil minions (the Crawleys) and the punishments Guildford will mete out to the bad guys he catches (Woking? Climping-by-Sea? Lancing? Epping?).</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Oh the joys and all that....</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span>She Means Well...http://www.blogger.com/profile/11606884423689767178noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398506795039479334.post-90331571197134203362009-11-20T15:21:00.004+02:002009-11-20T15:49:13.860+02:00Of soups, smugness & Genghis Mum<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><em>Whoop-de-doo!</em> </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Weekend lurking round the corner and migraine creeping up on me. No.1 crushed by disappointing exam results (Home Ec & Religious Studies, so no HUGE tragedy unless he plans to become Jamie Oliver, or the Pope). And NOW learn I have to trot off to local PC superstore to argue the case for repairing broken screen on his notebook under warranty.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Oh goody.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Day started SO well. Super-efficient, having it all, doing it all. By 9am, nutritious family meal was bubbling away in slow cooker, at least quarter of day's work done (thanks to super-early PC switch-on) and cauldron of leeks & potatoes sweating away in preparation for nutritious soup. Even allowed myself luxury of feeling a little smug. </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><em>Lesson of the day:</em> <strong>NEVER feel smug</strong>. Something will always come along and bite you on the bum.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">No.1 now three-quarters through first big slew of High School exams. Except for Home Ec & Religion, results pretty good so far - average of 17.5 out of 20 so far (with English yet to come, that SHOULD increase). </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><em>"Could do better" </em>applies (doesn't it always?), but still pretty good. </span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Tell self No.1 will settle into more organised study routine, these are the first big set of tests, he's in adjustment period, we have to trust him to make his own mistakes, find his own way, etc. </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Hope I'm right. If not, <em>Genghis Mum</em> may have to be called out from inner reaches of my psyche (and believe me, she's HARD work).</span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span>She Means Well...http://www.blogger.com/profile/11606884423689767178noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398506795039479334.post-39256784047620878212009-11-17T13:11:00.004+02:002009-11-17T13:50:48.695+02:00Oh, bee-have!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg07hZ5WPk7vauO_WtI93c35fEc3MuLTAc7uHr4Ow0XezRxdDtvK67q3F5-uqfYYEHvsBGQ9Ub30HZ6G1zyn3fFoafBZWMHVqYpBogZXcZiXw0hTZMuCzde6fCLZh7CV0jHsUIFi8RlUNM/s1600/bee.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 214px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5405034922245358530" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg07hZ5WPk7vauO_WtI93c35fEc3MuLTAc7uHr4Ow0XezRxdDtvK67q3F5-uqfYYEHvsBGQ9Ub30HZ6G1zyn3fFoafBZWMHVqYpBogZXcZiXw0hTZMuCzde6fCLZh7CV0jHsUIFi8RlUNM/s320/bee.jpg" /></a> <span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><em><strong>Status:</strong> Busy</em></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><em><strong>Mood:</strong> Buzzing</em></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Just by standing on the train, manage to strike panic and horror into heart of woman two commuters away from me. With hand not hanging from her strap, she's making frantic signals and hysterically waggling eyebrows in my direction.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Look behind me. Then, to either side. Flapping and waggling continues. </span><br /><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">She approaches, in the same way a damsel in distress might approach fire-breathing dragon. (Am not <em><strong>that</strong></em> scary, surely?)</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">With trembling index finger, she jabs at a spot just about an inch above my heart. Look down, squinting, and see a brown blob. Too close to focus instantly <em>(bi-focals here I come!)</em>, wonder what it might be <em>(please God, don't let it be dried pigeon pooh)</em>. </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Penny drops as it moves slightly. It has legs - six of 'em. </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">A bee. In November. On my denim jacket. In an enclosed tube packed with people. Underground.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Am usually of the <em>"don't bother them and they'll leave you alone"</em> school re bees. </span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Most fellow commuters are not. </span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Gasps of horror follow as they spot the sleepy striped beast now crawling across my breast pocket. They imagine scenes of epic horror if the unseasonal insect decides to run rampant on the Metro. </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">First horrified traveller grabs a tissue and grasps Ms Bumble, then hands her to me. <em>"Hold on tight til you get out"</em> she orders. </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Spend rest of journey with hapless honey bee scrunched between thumb and index finger, not wanting to crush her, but aware of responsibility to save fellow travellers from their nightmare scenario.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Half an hour later, step out of station and seek out flower bed to place my captive. Hope she likes roses. If not, there might be a gang of her buzzing buddies waiting to wreak her revenge later.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">If so, hope they sting me on my right hand, where I have now lost all sensation.</span><br /></div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span>She Means Well...http://www.blogger.com/profile/11606884423689767178noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398506795039479334.post-29432886642854113992009-11-15T13:12:00.005+02:002009-11-15T13:43:19.173+02:00Smoke gets in your eyes<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">It was one of those midnight calls. </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">The chime strikes dread into your heart. It can only be bad news at this time of the night. What is it? A loved one lost? A late-night rush to the hospital? What?</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">As it turned out, it was bad - but not THAT bad.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">It's Sister-in-Law. A car had gone up in flames in the underground parking area of their apartment block. The place is swarming with firefighters, police - and acrid black smoke. The blaze has been put out, but not before scorching SIL's car and filling every apartment with the scent of a bonfire fuelled by rubber tyres and Lead-Free petrol.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">OH clicks into Knight on a White Charger mode and leaps - superhero-like (swoon) - into his car (you can almost see his cape flapping in the breeze). SIL and her hubby have to hang around to deal with the authorities, but we can at least have their girls for the night.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">At 2am, I open the door to two sleep-dazed, befuddled and slightly shell-shocked young ladies. Giving them a welcoming hug, I breathe in a heady mix of pre-pubescent anxiety, sweat, and smoke. Usually the quiet one, the eldest (let's call her El, my pet name for her) is calm, collected and doing a great job of reassuring her usually bouncy, gregarious (and aparently fearless) younger sister, Zen, who is in a state of suppressed panic and has cried enough tears to put the fire out single-eyed.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">El thinks the speed at which Zen - a notorious victim of severe <em>"Sticky Mattress Syndrome"</em> - got out of bed when the alarm was raised is hilarious. She follows up with a series of impressive wise-cracking one-liners (esecially for a sleep-derived 11-year-old) which I guess is her way of dealing with things.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I lay a makeshift bed for Sir Lancelot (a.k.a. OH), then snuggle up with the girls, telling them the story of how my faithful little Fiat burst into flames with me and No.1 inside three Easters ago. Eventually, we fall asleep with the girls wrapped around me as I perch precariously on the edge of the bed.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Day breaks. I fall, with a bump, to the floor. </span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Check the girls - still smokey-smelling but snoring softly - and drag myself off to No.1's room for early morning hugs.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Fast forward a few hours. Fixing breakfast for the kids. No.1 emerges from beneath the duvet on the sofa with a <em>"Is something burning?"</em>.... </span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Quick as a flash, El pipes up: <em>"Again?"</em>.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Anyone for extra crispy bacon??</span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span>She Means Well...http://www.blogger.com/profile/11606884423689767178noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398506795039479334.post-28511110025658902172009-11-14T12:31:00.004+02:002009-11-14T13:03:09.715+02:00In which I welcome my weary traveller<em><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><strong>Mood:</strong> Contented & complete</span></em><br /><em><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><strong>To Do list:</strong> Trawl recipe books for autumn bounty inspiration, nag No.1, pamper OH, pay bills...</span></em><br /><em><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><strong>Tasks completed:</strong> Erm. Can I get back to you on that?</span></em><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">A sweet sense of domesticity has settled on the Transplanted household. Our not-so-holy Trinity is again complete - OH returned from his PR schlep of northern Greece. Trudges in, wrung out but heavy-laden with the bounties of countryside: crates of organic apples & lotus fruit; chestnuts; cosy handmade slippers; and two enormous terracotta crockpots.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Not known for his frugality, my man. Am now swimming in seasonal goodies, but wonder if there's anything left in family coffers to pay bills? Oh well....</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Adopt dutiful wife-like creature persona, welcome returning hero with homemade leek & potato soup with fresh sage and speciality cauliflower & leek cheese. Even have left-over apple cake (courtesy of neighbour with superior domestic pedigree) for pud. </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">And yet.... come 11pm, first rumblings of weary traveller's tummy are heard, accompanied by the phrase <em>"I want pizza"</em>. No.1 raises an eager face from TV, nodding <em>"Yeah!"</em> and mouthing order with gusto. </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Don serious grown-up I-know-what's-best-for-you face and say <em>"No you don't, darling. And if you do, you know you'll regret it."</em> </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">OH settles into teenage-style sulk, mumbles something about it all being my fault and toddles off to bed with No.1 in tow. Adults knackered, child still bouncing around like a jumping jack. Time for bed, but kiddo wants to watch rest of movie - and only bedroom TV is in OUR room. Cue male-bonding and Mum sleeping in teenage bed...</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">S'OK, will catch up on matrimonial hugs later. (Up-side: no window-rattling high decibel snores in MY ear).</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span>She Means Well...http://www.blogger.com/profile/11606884423689767178noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398506795039479334.post-63105433159238105462009-11-12T08:58:00.004+02:002009-11-12T09:38:53.975+02:00Approaching my Sell-By Date?<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><em><strong>Mood:</strong> Down, down, down.</em></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><em><strong>Glamour quotient:</strong> Non-existent</em></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><em><strong>Carbs craved:</strong> Mountains of bread, cakes, biscuits...</em></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><em><strong>Temptation resisted:</strong> Zero</em></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Urgh. That time of the month. No, not THAT time - the week or so before it. Can expect skull-crunching three-day migraine any day now.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Feeling my age... and then some. </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Am frumpy, lumpy, shakey, achey, spotty, dotty, sarcy, narky - and bloated to boot. </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Giving up daily walks <em>(no time!)</em> and comfort diet of super-carbs may not be best tactic.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">OH is schlepping around Greece doing the PR shuffle for most of this month. No.1 in a stupour induced by first batch of serious at High School exams (fuelled by diet of homemade cakes and nagging). Up to me to be the solid, reliable one, and keep things going on even keel as menfolk navigate semblance of reality. </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">No.1 calls from north Greece, complaining he feels tired, stressed and 'peculiar' <em>(join the club, sunshine)</em>. Cue supportive long-distance wifey noises. Try to sound sincere.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Money worries loom, cupboard is bare and my backside is burgeoning. </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><strong>Wasn't life suppposed to get easier as you get older?</strong></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Fear not, dear diary, it's probably just hormones. I'll be back in Tigger mode soon - probably well and truly on form by the time I hit 45 on 1 December.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">45? How the bloody hell did THAT happen? And why do I care? </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">40 was no big deal for me <em>(despite spending milestone birthday with abcessed tooth, industrial strength antibiotics and face swollen to resemble rugby ball after Twickenham final)</em>. But 45? 45 seems so much more.... more than halfway up the hill to 50. Then I'll be 'over the hill' and maybe 'all downhill' from there?</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">On days like today, I feel like I'm hurtling towards my Sell-By Date.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">On bright side, seem to ha ve exorcised creepy mature Midwich cuckoos that gave me the evil eye on bus all last week. They've disappeared - probably in a puff of rank green smoke, for all I know.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">See? There's always something to be glad for (ever imagined what 'Anne of Green Gables' was like as she hit middle age?). </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">So long as I keep up my mantra: <em>"Always look on the bright side of life, Always look..."</em> </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span>She Means Well...http://www.blogger.com/profile/11606884423689767178noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398506795039479334.post-11272061227752947932009-11-07T19:26:00.006+02:002009-11-07T20:20:03.656+02:00In which I resist the urge to strangle my offspring (just)<em><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><strong>State of mind:</strong> Frustrated & frazzled</span></em><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Am officially the most hated mother in Greece. </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Serves me right for giving a damn.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Spent most of morning having the screaming ab-dabs, trying to get No.1 to put a bit of effort into his school work. He can do so much better, with a little thought and imagination. Am creative wordy type so take it as personal insult when son of mine thinks he can get away with starting essay about his High School with <em>"My school is very nice..." (</em>He churned out better stuff when they wrote "My Day" in first year of Infants.)</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Read his first effort, and a red haze descends on me. Loose my cool, rip page out of exercise book and scrawl comments all over it. Explain <em>(sweetly but <strong>very</strong> firmly)</em> how it could/should be done. </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">No.1 looks at me like I'm <em>(a)</em> clearly certifiable and <em>(b)</em> have no idea what I'm talking about. Obviously, he considers that woman who has earned her daily bread with the written word for the past 25 years can't possibly know a thing about how to put together an essay. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">What do I know? I'm over the age of 20 - and therefore brain dead. </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Resist the urge to strangle him and insist, at rate of many decibels, that he re-writes. </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">After just two hours - interspersed with Saturday morning brain-melting cartoons, scratching at his electric guitar, computer games, corridor football and random animal noises - he presents Crap Essay 2.0. </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">It's an improvement, but still not up to scratch. Sigh. Take a deep breath and count to 10... then 100... and 1000... </span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"><em></em></span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"><em>(Just wait til your father gets home, kiddo.)</em></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Now he has English homework and revision for end of term geography test on Monday. Is he doing it? Is he 'eck as like! He's sitting in his room, perfecting his Green Day impersonation. I remind him that he has to do it today. He yells <em>"Yes, I know! You told me!"</em>. </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Ah, domestic bliss.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">I'm plodding my way relentlessly towards senility, and No.1 acts like everything's cool. Little does he know that tomorrow he'll do Crap Essay 3.0 - and I shall snatch back from Cruella DeVille the crown of world's most hated woman. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">Oh, the joys of parenthood! The only (unpaid) job whose sole purpose is to render yourself redundant, and at which you don't know if you have succeeded until it's too late to do anything about it. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">Just you wait, young'un. One of these days, I'll be old, grey and ga-ga... and then it'll be MY turn to drive YOU round the bend</span>.She Means Well...http://www.blogger.com/profile/11606884423689767178noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398506795039479334.post-36243784245697786492009-11-04T13:30:00.006+02:002009-11-04T14:06:22.885+02:00Middle-aged Midwich?<em><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><strong>Caffeine consumed:</strong> Not enough, apparently</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><strong>Illicit substance intake:</strong> Zero, to my knowledge</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><strong>State of mind:</strong> Puzzled, and slightly spooked</span></em><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Seems I have a Secret Detractor (or whatever the opposite of a Secret Admirer is). </span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Come to think of it, she's none too secret either.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Every morning as I get on the bus, am met with the disapproving and very direct glare of one of my fellow travelers. No idea why.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">She's a smallish woman in her late 50s or early 60s with grey hair scraped into a bun, thick glasses, no make-up, and a brown duffel coat. Ordinarily, wouldn't even notice her, let alone be spooked. But every day, she's there as I flop down in my seat and open my book - staring malignantly at me as if I had just eaten her entire family for breakfast.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Tried staring back in silent challenge - but no result. Tried ignoring her, but </span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">still feel her gaze boring into the back of my head. Want to approach her and look down from my full 5 ft 10 and say <em>"What?!", </em>but fear of public ridicule and lack of caffeine-fuelled bravado stop me.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Is it my shocking red hair that offends her so? Or the fact that I am so obviously not Greek? Perhaps she's decided I'm a wanton strumpet out to devour the cream of Greece's young men? </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Probably shouldn't worry - her prob, not mine. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">But what does worry me is the fact that... she seems to be multiplying. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLqecjxNHifqYiLflskRzPE25WLVVV3S8JmVD0tjGELbqiCudfuMkUCsOrYeLNRy_vR5zq3wh1I7Pw0ppxdH8S9kivtkL6dr8aZ6albZGcq1cuRkbNv61qA07Yx98Nxf2pduC7COTQRCw/s1600-h/creepy-kids-with-glowing-eyes-carpenters-village-o1.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 199px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 140px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5400217590097647202" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLqecjxNHifqYiLflskRzPE25WLVVV3S8JmVD0tjGELbqiCudfuMkUCsOrYeLNRy_vR5zq3wh1I7Pw0ppxdH8S9kivtkL6dr8aZ6albZGcq1cuRkbNv61qA07Yx98Nxf2pduC7COTQRCw/s320/creepy-kids-with-glowing-eyes-carpenters-village-o1.jpg" /></a>This morning, climbed onboard bus and spotted her at the front, twisting round to deliver her daily glare. I turned to head for the back - only to come face-to-face with her clone, also giving me <em>'The Look'</em>.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Was like a late middle-aged version of <em>The Midwich Cuckoos</em>. Two identical faces glaring at me in mute but insistent accusation. </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Flippin' 'eck, how many of them will there be tomorrow? </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Just decided, I'll be working from home for the rest of the week...</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span>She Means Well...http://www.blogger.com/profile/11606884423689767178noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398506795039479334.post-56997098405285717772009-10-30T20:48:00.005+02:002009-10-31T00:24:25.885+02:00In which it all goes to my head<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><em><strong>State of mind:</strong> Smug, but ready for weekend</em></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><em><strong>State of head:</strong> Scary</em></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><em><strong>Trick or treat:</strong> Um, can I have both?</em></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Am dynamic, productive Mum of action. Signed off latest magazine proof, wrote new website text, cooked nutritous chicken dinner for menfolk, baked cupcakes (which menfolk hoovered up like locusts in a wheat field), whizzed up 10 litres of curried pumpkin soup - and turned head into imitation of a black cherry flavoured lollipop (albeit lolly on a rather voluptuous stick).</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Bored with the toned-down orange base and blonde highlights I had done for the summer, decided it was time for the Return of 'Big Red'. That meant grabbing a pack of dye from supermarket shelf, mixing up a series of odd smelling chemicals, slapping the gloop on my head (trying not to redecorate bathroom in the process) and waiting half an hour for the transformation to magically take place. </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">And take place it did - though the result is a little closer to <em>'Psychadelic Copper Beech on Acid'</em> than the demure-sounding <em>'Light Auburn Brown'</em> the packet claimed. Wanted to add some colour to my lately washed-out overall look, highlighting colour of my eyes. Well, I certainly acheived that. Now an electric blue gaze peeps out from beneath a fringe of shocking burgundy. </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Oh well, it'll fade I s'pose (hope?).</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">No.1's response when he arrived home from school?<br /><em>"Urgh - your head's scary, Mum!"</em> </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">(Good, just in time for Hallowe'en - cue evil cackle).</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">OH arrives home looking like wet rag. Too deflated to even make sarcastic remark about scary head (now <em><strong>that's</strong></em> bad - when I first went redhead from natural blonde, he quipped <em>"Oh look, artificial intelligence"</em>. Har-bloody-har.). He had to fire someone today - probably the cruellest form of torture for a People Person like him. I wear my sympathetic wifey face and offer plate of home-baked cupcakes. Turn kettle on for a cuppa and come back to... empty plate. He's scoffed the lot! Who'd have thought being ruthless middle manager works up such an appetite?</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">OK, had enough. Gonna take my scary head and empty cake plate, and watch Jeremy Clarkson being sarcastic on <em>Top Gear</em> now. </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><em>Happy hallowe'en, ya'all!</em> </span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span>She Means Well...http://www.blogger.com/profile/11606884423689767178noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398506795039479334.post-17778587391259673842009-10-28T19:53:00.006+02:002009-10-28T20:33:13.596+02:00Fishcake fanfare<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><em><strong>Hunger factor:</strong> Off the scale</em></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><em><strong>Cupboard status:</strong> Old Mother Hubbard bare</em></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><em><strong>Jamie Brownie points:</strong> 1500!</em></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><em><strong>Mood:</strong> Accomplished</em></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Am Queen of the kitchen. </span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Nigella, Jamie, Gordon and Marco-Pierre wotsisface <em>(not to mention Mummy Dearest)</em> would be proud. Have turned the pathetic end-of-month/waiting-for-PayDay contents of my larder into a quick, tasty and nourishing meal. </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Today was a National Holiday. Greeks took the day off every 28 October to mark the famous <em>"Oxi!"</em> ("No!") that was their PM's reply when Mussolini's government demanded he hand over the country in 1940. Cue patriotic parades of schoolkids, scouts and aged Resistance veterans in every neighbourhood around the country. Also cue the same-old TV fodder that has played on this day every year for the past 40 years - fuzzy black & white documentaries and movies <em>(of which everyone knows every last word of dialogue)</em> celebrating how the brave Greeks snubbed their noses at the Nazis.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I left OH and the in-laws to chat patriotically on the sofa as they watched the last of the coverage of the biggest official parade, and hoped that No.1 would soak up some of his grandfather's reminiscences and regurgitate it when he has to write a essay in his History class some time in the future. As a foreigner, I can't reall contribute much, so I set about fixing sauces and boiling spaghetti <em>(kinda ironic considering today celebrates a rejection of all things Italian)</em>.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">After stuffing our faces with pasta, we settled down for a quiet afternoon of No.1's homework and preparation for tomorrow's Biology test while OH & I got all cultured listening to Bach and opera highlights as we checked our emails. I was even humming Tocatta & Fugue to myself as I went out for my daily hour's stomp round the neighbourhood.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Then, at about 7.30pm, hunger struck. Big time.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">No.1 & OH are pasta addicts. If incapacitated, they'd simply have vermicelli delivered intravenously with a sprinkling of parmesan. By the time they had descended on the leftovers lovingly placed in the fridge for tomorrow, there was precisely nothing left for Yours Truly.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Fine, you might say. </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Not fine, I roar in reply. I was HUNGRY. I wanted to eat. </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">But what was there in the house? Quite literally, not a sausage. Just two small potatoes, a slightly wilted onion and half a piece of left-over fish.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">What to do? What to do? </span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Then, inspiration struck! Fishcakes. Never made 'em before, but how hard can they be?</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">As it turns out, not hard at all. Peel spuds, boil 'em with chopped onion, mash it all up, flake fish, add a pinch of chilli, salt, pepper, a smidge of fresh basil and mix it all up. Shape into burger sized rounds, dunk in flour, and fry lightly. Serve with a splodge of leftover tom-basil sauce for dipping, and eat. </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Yum! Big Brownie points to Mandi from the school of eating well with bugger all in the larder. </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Even better, OH and No.1 turned their noses up at my offering <em>(Greeks are rightly proud of their cuisine, but can be dismissive of anything beyond their comfort zone)</em>. No prob. Their loss - and more for me! </span><br /><br /><p><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span> </p><p> </p>She Means Well...http://www.blogger.com/profile/11606884423689767178noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398506795039479334.post-67294740572238218872009-10-27T21:52:00.005+02:002009-10-27T22:51:44.374+02:00In which I grovel<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Dear Diary,</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Yes, I know. I've neglected you in the most unforgivable manner. If you were my child, you'd be wandering the streets barefoot, in threadbare clothes, with a hunk of week-old bread in one hand and a carrier bag containing a bottle of Strongbow and 20 Marlborough in the other.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I'm sorry, right? </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">But it's only today that I have emerged from a four-day-long migraine. A marathon of skull-crunching pain that rendered me all but useless except for going through the motions that pay the mortgage and dishing out some kind of sustainance to feed the family.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">The prospect of writing a single syllable that I didn't have to in order to justify my salary just wasn't on the agenda. Sorry.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">But today, I woke up with a head as light as a feather and free of the sense that there's something desparate to burst out of my frontal lobe in a way reminiscent of John Hurt's best-remembered scene in <em>Alien</em>. So I promise I'll do better.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Now all I have to worry about is the fact that I'm apologising to a cyber book of mostly empty pages.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span>She Means Well...http://www.blogger.com/profile/11606884423689767178noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398506795039479334.post-66272133085408202352009-10-21T19:42:00.005+03:002009-10-21T20:01:53.724+03:00Idleness 1-Work Ethic 0<em><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><strong>Caffeine intake:</strong> 4 coffees (inc. 1 coffee-coloured concoction served by man with dodgy hair-weave in Starbucks)</span></em><br /><em><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><strong>Work output:</strong> 20% capacity (should feel bad, but don't)</span></em><br /><em><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><strong>Chocolate craved: </strong>2 brownies, 1 Kit-Kat & big bar of Cadbury's Dairy Milk. At least.</span></em><br /><em><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><strong>Chocolate consumed: </strong>I small chocolate wafer (pretty restrained, considering what craved)</span></em><br /><em><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><strong>State of mind:</strong> In free-fall</span></em><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Have been a lazy old boot today. Did just the minimum required work (after making sure all deadlines were beaten earlier in the week), made my presence felt and went through motions of looking busy. But - if honest - must admit spent most of the day fiddle-arsing about.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Tell self I deserve a break. I work beyond the standard 9-to-5 most days, then come home and check emails for another hour or two. Who's gonna give me a hard time for one day of idleness? </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Me, that's who. My cursed in-bred Protestant Work Ethic (PWE) keeps kicking against logic and trying to re-awaken my guilt gene.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Well, PWE can kiss my lily-white backside. Am entitled to little bit of idleness now and then. </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Now, if you don't mind - dear Diary - I really can't be arsed to write any more...</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span>She Means Well...http://www.blogger.com/profile/11606884423689767178noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398506795039479334.post-64466900950603731352009-10-18T13:39:00.007+03:002009-10-18T14:07:52.563+03:00Easy on a Sunday morning<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Strange sense of serenity has settled over me. </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><em>(Should I worry that aliens have taken over my usually slightly frantic & burbling brain?)</em></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">No.1's room update: all done bar the shouting and some spotlights. Big sighs of relief & satisfaction.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Men in my life out, being macho at some Sports Expo. </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">House clean & tidy (at least for now) - and quiet (bliss!). No shouting. No sudden animal shrieks (yes, I know we don't have pets any more but we still have residual beasty noises). No attacks on electric guitar with amp turned RIGHT UP. No arguments about homework or excessive TV or video games. </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Just gentle tap of fingers on the keyboard, Radio 4 on laptop <em>(Radio 4 was <strong>made</strong> for Sunday mornings)</em>, and Sunday soups (beef & veg broth for carnivores, spicy meatless minestrone for me) bubbling away on stove. </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">For once, brain not racing or digging into <em>'might-haves'</em>, <em>'could-haves'</em>, <em>'should-haves'</em> or <em>'what-ifs'</em>. Just the splendid isolation of few hours to myself.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Dear God, am officially an old fart. But don't care. </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Time for another cuppa and wander onto balcony to check flower boxes.</span> <span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Just call me when my pension check and crossword arrive.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span>She Means Well...http://www.blogger.com/profile/11606884423689767178noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398506795039479334.post-58861727148165121872009-10-16T23:11:00.005+03:002009-10-17T00:07:13.797+03:00The Flat Pack Queen gets busy<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><em><strong>Glamour quotient:</strong> Minus 5,328 (bloated, no make-up, hair akimbo, etc. – waddya expect?)<br /><strong>Caffeine intake:</strong> Cups of tea: 12. Drunk: 7 (keep losing ‘em)<br /><strong>Accomplishments of the day:</strong> IKEA wall-mounted desks & zigzag shelves for No.1’s room assembled (am Queen of the Flat Packs)<br /><strong>Unfinished business:</strong> Desks & shelves to mount, curtain to hang, rubbish to dump, sanity to retrieve.<br /><strong>State of house:</strong> Utter chaos<br /><strong>State of mind:</strong> Ditto</em><br /><br /><br />Am complete piglet (diet went bye-bye this week). Looking round, I see that we do indeed live in a sty. That figures. Other stye threatening to take up residence at inner corner of my left eye. </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">And yet, feel strange sense of achievement. </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><em>(Note to self: Consider merits of behavioural therapy. Is it covered by Greek state health service? NO!)<br /></em><br />Spent most of evening screwing with OH. </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Screwing bits of wood together, screwing up eyes trying to follow strange Swedish instructions, screwing up and throwing instruction sheet away in disgust (then screwing up nose as I retrieve it from rubbish bin).<br /><br />Plan was to have bounties of IKEA all in place ready to delight No.1 when he returned from evening with his mates. But the best-laid plans of mice and men (esp. GREEK men)… well, you know the rest, Dear Diary.<br /><br />Reality is that OH and No.1 are now off to bed in our room. I get to sleep on sofa (it IS my turn - OH was on sofa duty when paint fumes rendered No1's room a no-sleep area last week). No.1’s new bed is a mess of power tools, Allen keys, measuring tapes and screws. </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">And cardboard boxes – lots and lots of cardboard boxes.<br /><br />But come tomorrow, as day breaks and the power drills start whirring again, we’ll finally be on the home stretch to having the coolest pre-teen bedroom in the world <em>(well, in our street at least)</em>.<br /><br />It doesn’t take much to make me happy these days… </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Ain’t domestic bliss grand?<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span>She Means Well...http://www.blogger.com/profile/11606884423689767178noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398506795039479334.post-34875008230505882322009-10-15T16:16:00.003+03:002009-10-15T16:34:07.901+03:00Blame it on the crumble<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><em><strong>Caffeine intake:</strong> 6 cups of tea</em></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><em><strong>Earth Mother Brownie Points:</strong> 27 (homemade apple crumble, 2nd time in a week!)</em></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><em><strong>Calories consumed:</strong> 58,973 (blame it on the crumble)</em></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Wonder Woman's got nothing on me. </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Spuds peeled, bean stew made and apple crumble prepared - all BEFORE 9am. Then, chained to laptop, tap away and clear a slew ot items from the the dreaded TO DO list. Just a few breaks for tea, pee and feeding No.1 once back from school.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">No.1 seems impressed. In a voice more English than Stephen Fry waving the flag on St George's Day declares <em>"Mummy, you're a proper English housewife."</em> </span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">(Hmmmm, think it's first time ANYONE has called me that. Not sure how to feel about it...)</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Autumn has arrived in Athens - piddling down. May have to put off today's daily stomp and do housebound stuff instead.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Plenty to keep me busy at home. End in sight for the revamp of No.1's room. IKEA raided, credit card muscle flexed (and sprained), house now littered with flat-pack boxes of stuff waiting to be unpacked and assembled. </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">OH promises to get all manly with power tools tonight, but first requires Obedient Wide (that's me) to clear the debris and chuck out recyclable rubbish.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Hey ho, I'm sure it'll all be worth it in the end.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span>She Means Well...http://www.blogger.com/profile/11606884423689767178noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398506795039479334.post-8177672007638953852009-10-13T13:06:00.005+03:002009-10-13T13:25:09.824+03:00Emerging from the slime<em><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><strong>Caffeine input:</strong> Minimal (due to invalid status)</span></em><br /><em><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><strong>Earth Mother Brownie points:</strong> 78 (I made pudding, for gawd's sake!)</span></em><br /><em><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><strong>Pudding consumed:</strong> 1 serving (v. restrained)</span></em><br /><em><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><strong>Hours slept:</strong> Nowhere near enough</span></em><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Urgh. Feel like a slug emerging from the primeval slime that first gave birth to life. A slug that takes one look around it and thinks <em>"Don't think much of this. Can I go back please?"</em>.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Since Saturday, have had all the energy of a heavily pregnant three-toed sloth. And on Sunday the mother of all migraines took up residence in the left hemisphere of my noggin. You know the sort of thing - when you feel like someone has stuck your head in a vice and every now again comes along and tightens the grip a few more notches. But being the super-mummy that I so want to be, I just keep going. There's work to be done, dishes to be washed, mouths to be fed...</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Think the pain is fading a little, or perhaps I'm just used to it now. Or maybe last night's apple crumble and home-made custard (from scratch, if you please!) did its magic. Amazing what the combination of a sense of acheivement and comfort food can do.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">Took advantage of dark glasses worn on train to sneak a quick kip this morning (good thing about working at the end of the line is that you can't miss your stop). Think fellow passengers may have rumbled when I started snoring gently (woke self up - v. embarrassing).</span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">As I walk to office, head is not throbbing and nape opf neck does not feel like Mr Spock has put the Vulcan vice pinch on me. Maybe I'll be able to work through the red haze of my headache, after all?</span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">Whatever happens, one thought keeps me going: </span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"><em>There's more apple crumble and custard waiting in the fridge...</em></span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span>She Means Well...http://www.blogger.com/profile/11606884423689767178noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398506795039479334.post-55106561426832665582009-10-07T22:53:00.004+03:002009-10-07T23:17:05.752+03:00Confessions of a harridan housewife<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Am trying to be v. patient, compassionate & understanding. </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Am trying, but failing. True nature of impatient harpy won't tolerate Stepford Wife behaviour, no matter how hard brain tells me it's a good tactic.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Poor OH is in pain. Has been since our home decorating marathon at the weekend (must have pulled a muscle watching me paint - can't be anything else as he just faffed about for a day and a half with 'prepatory work'). Now he's taking every opportunity to remind me of his lumbar agony.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Sheesh! Good thing men don't get pregnant! Or periods.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Meanwhile, revamped room stands in suspended animation waiting for covers to be put back on light switches & plugholes, and painted cupboard doors screwed back in place. Dare to express humble opinion that I can do it, but OH comes over all masterful and manly to insist I can't possibly do it and so must wait for him.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">Oh goody, the Waiting Game. My favourite.<br /></span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Looks like we'll be weaving our way past cupboard doors waiting in hall til Christmas. </span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Gaah!</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">In flood of pre-programmed guilt, realise that I am clearly a heartless harridan who should not be allowed within screeching distance of poor, sensitive, well-meaning menfolk.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">(But at least I get things done).</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Never mind, will wait for OH to disappear and get on with it.</span><br /><em><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">(Imagines triumphant "ta-da!" as OH walks in to find cupboards ready and lightswitches covered - tries to ignore inevitable liturgy of what done wrong and why should have waited).</span></em><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">Sometimes, it pays to be a little bit of a bitch...</span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span>She Means Well...http://www.blogger.com/profile/11606884423689767178noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398506795039479334.post-1512516703332397812009-10-06T20:47:00.007+03:002009-10-06T21:33:03.197+03:00Verbal diarrhoea<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><em><strong>Word count:</strong> Approx. 15 million, not counting swear words muttered under breath</em><br /><em><strong>Caffeine intake:</strong> 5 coffees, 2 teas (maybe that's why I'm shaking?)</em><br /><em><strong>Brain temperature:</strong> Kilometres walked: 6 (v.good)</em><br /><em><strong>Chocolate craved:</strong> An entire chocolate factory's worth</em><br /><em><strong>Chocolate eaten:</strong> None (v.v. good - am model of restraint)</em><br /><br /><br />Words, words, words.... thousands of 'em. And I have to make sense of 'em, and sort them into an order that will make sense to other people. Burble, burble, burble.... welcome to my world.<br /><br />After weekend up ladder with splodges of paint on my noggin, giving my arm and leg muscles a rest but taxing my poor tired grey matter. Never mind, am dynamic career woman with a way with words. I can do this.<br /><br />Finding something to write about is rarely problem. Can waffle for my country - as my dear old Dad used to say - on the most mundane of subjects. Problem is cutting it all down to the basics, simplifying the language and still getting message across - without reader switching off and turning on <em>'The X Factor'</em> before ending third paragraph.<br /><br />Trouble is, not everyone gets the <em>"less is more"</em> mantra. They think <em>"a way with words"</em> means LOTS of the little buggers. And even when they ask me for article length they should aim for (let's say 600), they'll come back with 2,000 or more.<br /><br />Spent first years of No.1's life clearing up his poop, and now I'm wiping up other people's verbal (and written) diarrhoea.<br /><br />Out comes Mandi's ruthless red pencil - and the massacre begins!<br /><br />Send the slashed, cut and paste revamp (now 700 words) back to author. Miracle of miracles - he likes it! <em>(Unlike other colleague who took offence when I cut erroneous apostrophes some months back.)</em> Phew. Breathe sigh of relief and have another cuppa.<br /><br />Back home in evening, add fourth coat of yellow paint to cupboard door <em>(damn you streaks, I will defeat you!)</em> and settle to listen to OH grilling No.1 on the paleolithic and neolithic eras. History test tomorrow - first one at new school.<br /><br />OH in professor mode, grilling young'un and giving tips on how to write tests, make friends and influence teachers <em>(this from the man who free-wheeled through most of High School on a wing, prayer and almost photographic memory, devouring off-curriculum books but nothing on the official reading list)</em>.<br /><br />Yadda, yadda, yadda, blah blah blah. OH & No.1 still rabbiting on. Seems there's no escape from verbal diarrhoea today.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span>She Means Well...http://www.blogger.com/profile/11606884423689767178noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398506795039479334.post-56939944324224526582009-10-04T21:39:00.002+03:002009-10-04T21:53:03.980+03:00Colour me senseless<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><em><strong>Caffeine intake:</strong> Gallons!</em></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><em><strong>Hours up a ladder:</strong> at least 5</em></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><em><strong>Hair colour:</strong> Red-blonde with splashes of white, orange, blue, mauve, yellow, green</em></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><em><strong>Chocolate consumed:</strong> Whole bar of milk choc with almonds (v.v. bad, but delicious - and deserved)</em></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Am international Mum of action - a woman wot gets things done.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Am also shattered after three days of sanding, filling, sanding again, washing down, painting, waiting, more painting, cleaning, taping, painting again, sweeping, mopping up spills, removing tape. But it's worth it - No.1's bedroom is well on its way to transformation from primrose yellow/sky blue Winnie the Pooh refuge to funksville for a soon-to-be teen.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">And as today was the General Election in Greece, OH was busy with politics - which meant I could just get on with things. </span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Later tonight, we'll know which party will be the new Government (all the exit polls are predicting a landslide of the socialists, who - rather confusingly - have green as their party colour here). </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Whatever colour is in power, or fashion or that matter, No.1 will be fine. His room now has white walls, a red doorframe and window casing, and super-cool sort of bar code effects in orange, mauve, green, dark blue, green and light blue.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">And it's all thanks to me!</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><em>(Maybe one day he'll thank me...)</em></span>She Means Well...http://www.blogger.com/profile/11606884423689767178noreply@blogger.com0