Tuesday, 15 July (evening) - Things improved as the sun went down

Status: Retouched and defuzzed.
Mood: Better than this morning!
Calories consumed: Middling, but they were prepared by No.1 and Only Son, so that's a win)
Blood spilled: None (miraculously)

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 (if I'm gonna get choccy stains, I at least want to be the one who put them there!) and feet screaming in protest at yet another crowded journey breathing other people's souvlaki fumes and having toes trodden on. Oh the joys.

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.

Hit the bathroom to rinse every trace of the gym off me, but end up giving myself the works.
Success - roots touched-up without giving cat an interesting new look, despite his insistence to stick his nose in every I do. (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)
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.

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. 

Am domestic goddess, supremely groomed and expert trainer of male offspring.

Not a bad note on which to head for bed. Night all! 

Tuesday, 15 July - Summertime sloven

Status: Humid and creaky.

Mood: Fed up. Feeling my age.

Calories consumed: Who cares?

Caffeine intake: Nowhere near enough!

I know, I know. I know I said that I would keep up with you, Dear Diary, and here we are – 12 days since you last heard from me. It’s not that I don’t think of you (I do, every single day, but that's as far as it goes), it’s just that life – and heat – has got in the way.

Is hot in Athens. Very hot. Especially on days when I have to make hour’s train journey to work, crammed up against assorted body odours, garrulous tourists heading for the port with giNORmous backpacks as they embark on their “third world adventure” (which those of us who live and work in Greece call the daily grind), and a sprinkling of sob stories and egregious accordion players trawling the carriages for some spare change.

Day starts with me dithering in front of wardrobe – which outfit will make me sweat the least? (More to the point, which will look least goddawful when I inevitably do?). Opt for the pristine white t-shirt and floaty black and white floral skirt with images of me floating around a Boden catalogue of can-do elegance and efficiency. Wriggle feet into slip on wedges and head out the door with bag slung across body and laptop planted on back like some kind of middle-aged mutant turtle ready for armed combat.

Regret choice of outfit five minutes after boarding train. Bag and laptop have wrinkled crisp white t-shirt into an oblivion of wrinkles worthy of New Ager who’s just returned from an trip to find herself at an Ashram in India. Thighs are swimming in a thick sheen of sweat, thanks to the train air conditioning about as effective as five asthmatic teenagers who’ve been chewing polo mints blowing on the crowded carriage.

Naturally, standing room for the whole journey, which of course takes half an hour longer than usual. Achey knee (result of illusions of being Wonder Woman on various instruments of torture at the gym) screams at me for my stupid choice of any kind of footwear not as flat as a pancake – or preferably, slippers appropriate to my age and build.

Arrive at office looking like a refugee. In lift, try to adjust flattened hair, remove smudged eyeliner and reapply lippy in the hope of kidding someone – anyone – that yes, I am a professional and not some stray beggar who wandered in off the street.

And so, to work…

Tired and aching, settle down in front of screen and try to look like I know what I’m doing.

Summer in Greece is great, or so they tell me. I’ll let you know when I finally get the chance to see for myself.

Thursday, 3 July 2014 – Everywoman, everything, everywhere

Status: All-round wonder woman.

Mood: Invincible….   sort of.

Calories consumed: I might be within my limit. Possibly.

Calories used: About 10 litres of sweat worth.

Alcohol: On third large glass of rose (say no more)

Start day ready for whatever's coming my way. Plenty of work waiting in In Box when I log in at 7.30am (Yay! Am not obsolete!). 

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? 

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.

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.

Pulled away from kitchen by insistent “ding!” 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.

Yes, ladies. You too can have it all!

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.

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.

Wonder if cats have cellulite under all that fur?

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. 

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.

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.

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 “Yes please, darling!” ignored.

OH also joins land of the living, throwing a grunt of testosterone in my direction as he wonders past in saggy grey boxer shorts (must point him in direction of Athens branch of Marks & SparksVERY soon). Who says romance is dead after the first two years?

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!

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).

Close laptop, change into sweats and head for gym to produce body weight in perspiration (dear old dad used to say “Horse sweat, men perspire, ladies glow”. Am glowing like a pig by time I get back home).

Just call me woman for all seasons, folks. Wife, mother, career woman, gourmet cook, exercise guru….   sort of.

Celebrate spent calories with cheese sarny and a fresh bottle of wine. I've earned it, right?

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.

Sunday, 29 June 2014 - Kicking off

Status: Defuzzed. Sticky.

Mood: Even stickier.

Home front: Bristling with anticipation.

Immediate outlook: Ball shaped. Possibility of explosions of mad joy spilling onto streets, or epidemic of dejection, round about 1am.

Alcohol consumed: Two Zorba-sized glasses – and counting.

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). 

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.

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.

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 (shame I also had the urge to throw iron at OH’s head).

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.

Armpits easy. Whip out the trusty Gilette disposable and OH’s can of foam and bish-bash-bosh, 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.

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.

First leg covered. Time to rip off the strips, and every trace of unwanted here with them. Check box : “Grasp firmly between thumb and forefinger and tug sharply against direction of hair growth”. 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.

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.

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 (“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?”…) . 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.

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.

Just hope they win.
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.

I'm back!

Status: Back in the "Brit Chick" saddle after five years of radio silence.
Mood: Nostalgic
To Do List: Never-ending
Carbs craved: A mountain sized stack of Cheesy Wotsits worth.
Carbs consumed (so far): Two spoonfuls of sawdust - sorry,muesli. (Cue forced cheer of "You go girl!")


Dear Diary,

Remember me? That middle-aged bint you last heard of the day she turned 45?

I know, I know. Where the hell have I been? What happened? Why did I desert you?
(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 "Mea culpa").

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.

I still here, in Greece. Older, yes. Poorer, definitely. Wiser, who knows? But still clinging on to with tzatziki-smeared fingertips.

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 'nevra' borne of wounded male pride.

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.

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. 


The Three Graces - my oldest friends - have been whittled down to Two after Ffaenella The Fragrant decided she no longer wanted anyone from our family in her life. But Welsh Fran and Georgy more than make up for her absence with daily doses of madness to keep me this side of sanity (I didn't say which side "this side" is, did I?).

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). 

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 'Box of Screaming Demons') 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.

So there you go...   still hanging on, hurtling towards menopause, battling biddie-dom in a bid to make 50 "FABuolous!" a la Samantha in "Sex & The City" (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).

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.

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. 

Wish me luck!

Older:Yes. Wiser:?

Status: Officially older, not necessarily wiser
Mood: Overwhelmed


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.

Doesn't help that the nice girl in the pharmacy I ask for a good face cream hands me one for "mature skin" (would it hurt them to call it "wiser"?).

Undaunted, am determined to be cheerful, upbeat and positive on my birthday. Chocolate eclairs and macaroons bought to share at office help (yum).
[Note to self: Sweets bought to SHARE with well-wishing colleagues]

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 "one of the most lovable, crazy, gorgeous people on the Franplanet".
Think (hope) that's a compliment....

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.

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 "Happy Birthday Mum" and me opening cards in post...
....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.

Enter OH, armed with a bunch of roses, badly-written but loving card - and a killer migraine. So, a quiet night in then. (He'd better make it up to me at the weekend!)

Treat myself to spicy noodles with sweet chilli and cashews... ...but candles keep falling over into the gloop, so give in and pig out.

Here's to the next 45 years!

In Conversation with Kidling Grand

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:

He: "Ooh Mum, look what's on the telly. The world's tallest man is in Greece and he's looking for a wife."
Me: "Too late, I'm already married and I really don't fancy another wedding."
He: [shooting withering look in my direction] "We should introduce him to Ilias in Year 3 at my school. He's already over two metres tall."
Me: "Um, isn't Ilias a BOY??"
He: "Who knows?" [shoots me a wicked grin, grabs another hunk of bread and scoots off to bedroom to twiddle with leccy guitar]

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.

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?).

Oh the joys and all that....

Of soups, smugness & Genghis Mum

Whoop-de-doo!
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.

Oh goody.

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.

Lesson of the day: NEVER feel smug. Something will always come along and bite you on the bum.

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).

"Could do better" applies (doesn't it always?), but still pretty good. 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.

Hope I'm right. If not, Genghis Mum may have to be called out from inner reaches of my psyche (and believe me, she's HARD work).

Oh, bee-have!

Status: Busy
Mood: Buzzing

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.

Look behind me. Then, to either side. Flapping and waggling continues.

She approaches, in the same way a damsel in distress might approach fire-breathing dragon. (Am not that scary, surely?)

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 (bi-focals here I come!), wonder what it might be (please God, don't let it be dried pigeon pooh).

Penny drops as it moves slightly. It has legs - six of 'em.
A bee. In November. On my denim jacket. In an enclosed tube packed with people. Underground.

Am usually of the "don't bother them and they'll leave you alone" school re bees.

Most fellow commuters are not.

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.

First horrified traveller grabs a tissue and grasps Ms Bumble, then hands her to me. "Hold on tight til you get out" she orders.

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.

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.

If so, hope they sting me on my right hand, where I have now lost all sensation.

Smoke gets in your eyes

It was one of those midnight calls.
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?

As it turned out, it was bad - but not THAT bad.

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.

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.

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.

El thinks the speed at which Zen - a notorious victim of severe "Sticky Mattress Syndrome" - 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.

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.

Day breaks. I fall, with a bump, to the floor. Check the girls - still smokey-smelling but snoring softly - and drag myself off to No.1's room for early morning hugs.

Fast forward a few hours. Fixing breakfast for the kids. No.1 emerges from beneath the duvet on the sofa with a "Is something burning?".... Quick as a flash, El pipes up: "Again?".

Anyone for extra crispy bacon??

In which I welcome my weary traveller

Mood: Contented & complete
To Do list: Trawl recipe books for autumn bounty inspiration, nag No.1, pamper OH, pay bills...
Tasks completed: Erm. Can I get back to you on that?


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.

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....

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.

And yet.... come 11pm, first rumblings of weary traveller's tummy are heard, accompanied by the phrase "I want pizza". No.1 raises an eager face from TV, nodding "Yeah!" and mouthing order with gusto.

Don serious grown-up I-know-what's-best-for-you face and say "No you don't, darling. And if you do, you know you'll regret it."

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...

S'OK, will catch up on matrimonial hugs later. (Up-side: no window-rattling high decibel snores in MY ear).

Approaching my Sell-By Date?

Mood: Down, down, down.
Glamour quotient: Non-existent
Carbs craved: Mountains of bread, cakes, biscuits...
Temptation resisted: Zero


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.

Feeling my age... and then some.
Am frumpy, lumpy, shakey, achey, spotty, dotty, sarcy, narky - and bloated to boot.

Giving up daily walks (no time!) and comfort diet of super-carbs may not be best tactic.

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.

No.1 calls from north Greece, complaining he feels tired, stressed and 'peculiar' (join the club, sunshine). Cue supportive long-distance wifey noises. Try to sound sincere.

Money worries loom, cupboard is bare and my backside is burgeoning.
Wasn't life suppposed to get easier as you get older?

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.

45? How the bloody hell did THAT happen? And why do I care?
40 was no big deal for me (despite spending milestone birthday with abcessed tooth, industrial strength antibiotics and face swollen to resemble rugby ball after Twickenham final). 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?

On days like today, I feel like I'm hurtling towards my Sell-By Date.

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.

See? There's always something to be glad for (ever imagined what 'Anne of Green Gables' was like as she hit middle age?).

So long as I keep up my mantra: "Always look on the bright side of life, Always look..."

In which I resist the urge to strangle my offspring (just)

State of mind: Frustrated & frazzled


Am officially the most hated mother in Greece.
Serves me right for giving a damn.

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 "My school is very nice..." (He churned out better stuff when they wrote "My Day" in first year of Infants.)

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 (sweetly but very firmly) how it could/should be done.

No.1 looks at me like I'm (a) clearly certifiable and (b) 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.

What do I know? I'm over the age of 20 - and therefore brain dead.

Resist the urge to strangle him and insist, at rate of many decibels, that he re-writes.

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.

It's an improvement, but still not up to scratch. Sigh. Take a deep breath and count to 10... then 100... and 1000...

(Just wait til your father gets home, kiddo.)

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 "Yes, I know! You told me!".
Ah, domestic bliss.

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.

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.

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.

Middle-aged Midwich?

Caffeine consumed: Not enough, apparently
Illicit substance intake: Zero, to my knowledge
State of mind: Puzzled, and slightly spooked


Seems I have a Secret Detractor (or whatever the opposite of a Secret Admirer is). Come to think of it, she's none too secret either.

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.

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.

Tried staring back in silent challenge - but no result. Tried ignoring her, but 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 "What?!", but fear of public ridicule and lack of caffeine-fuelled bravado stop me.

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?

Probably shouldn't worry - her prob, not mine.

But what does worry me is the fact that... she seems to be multiplying.

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 'The Look'.

Was like a late middle-aged version of The Midwich Cuckoos. Two identical faces glaring at me in mute but insistent accusation.

Flippin' 'eck, how many of them will there be tomorrow?

Just decided, I'll be working from home for the rest of the week...

In which it all goes to my head

State of mind: Smug, but ready for weekend
State of head: Scary
Trick or treat: Um, can I have both?

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).

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.

And take place it did - though the result is a little closer to 'Psychadelic Copper Beech on Acid' than the demure-sounding 'Light Auburn Brown' 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.
Oh well, it'll fade I s'pose (hope?).

No.1's response when he arrived home from school?
"Urgh - your head's scary, Mum!"
(Good, just in time for Hallowe'en - cue evil cackle).

OH arrives home looking like wet rag. Too deflated to even make sarcastic remark about scary head (now that's bad - when I first went redhead from natural blonde, he quipped "Oh look, artificial intelligence". 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?

OK, had enough. Gonna take my scary head and empty cake plate, and watch Jeremy Clarkson being sarcastic on Top Gear now.

Happy hallowe'en, ya'all!

Fishcake fanfare

Hunger factor: Off the scale
Cupboard status: Old Mother Hubbard bare
Jamie Brownie points: 1500!
Mood: Accomplished

Am Queen of the kitchen. Nigella, Jamie, Gordon and Marco-Pierre wotsisface (not to mention Mummy Dearest) would be proud. Have turned the pathetic end-of-month/waiting-for-PayDay contents of my larder into a quick, tasty and nourishing meal.

Today was a National Holiday. Greeks took the day off every 28 October to mark the famous "Oxi!" ("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 (of which everyone knows every last word of dialogue) celebrating how the brave Greeks snubbed their noses at the Nazis.

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 (kinda ironic considering today celebrates a rejection of all things Italian).

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.

Then, at about 7.30pm, hunger struck. Big time.

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.

Fine, you might say.

Not fine, I roar in reply. I was HUNGRY. I wanted to eat.
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.

What to do? What to do? Then, inspiration struck! Fishcakes. Never made 'em before, but how hard can they be?

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.

Yum! Big Brownie points to Mandi from the school of eating well with bugger all in the larder.
Even better, OH and No.1 turned their noses up at my offering (Greeks are rightly proud of their cuisine, but can be dismissive of anything beyond their comfort zone). No prob. Their loss - and more for me!

In which I grovel

Dear Diary,

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.

I'm sorry, right?
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.

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.

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 Alien. So I promise I'll do better.

Now all I have to worry about is the fact that I'm apologising to a cyber book of mostly empty pages.

Idleness 1-Work Ethic 0

Caffeine intake: 4 coffees (inc. 1 coffee-coloured concoction served by man with dodgy hair-weave in Starbucks)
Work output: 20% capacity (should feel bad, but don't)
Chocolate craved: 2 brownies, 1 Kit-Kat & big bar of Cadbury's Dairy Milk. At least.
Chocolate consumed: I small chocolate wafer (pretty restrained, considering what craved)
State of mind: In free-fall


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.

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?

Me, that's who. My cursed in-bred Protestant Work Ethic (PWE) keeps kicking against logic and trying to re-awaken my guilt gene.
Well, PWE can kiss my lily-white backside. Am entitled to little bit of idleness now and then.

Now, if you don't mind - dear Diary - I really can't be arsed to write any more...

Easy on a Sunday morning

Strange sense of serenity has settled over me.
(Should I worry that aliens have taken over my usually slightly frantic & burbling brain?)

No.1's room update: all done bar the shouting and some spotlights. Big sighs of relief & satisfaction.

Men in my life out, being macho at some Sports Expo.
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.

Just gentle tap of fingers on the keyboard, Radio 4 on laptop (Radio 4 was made for Sunday mornings), and Sunday soups (beef & veg broth for carnivores, spicy meatless minestrone for me) bubbling away on stove.

For once, brain not racing or digging into 'might-haves', 'could-haves', 'should-haves' or 'what-ifs'. Just the splendid isolation of few hours to myself.

Dear God, am officially an old fart. But don't care.

Time for another cuppa and wander onto balcony to check flower boxes. Just call me when my pension check and crossword arrive.

The Flat Pack Queen gets busy

Glamour quotient: Minus 5,328 (bloated, no make-up, hair akimbo, etc. – waddya expect?)
Caffeine intake: Cups of tea: 12. Drunk: 7 (keep losing ‘em)
Accomplishments of the day: IKEA wall-mounted desks & zigzag shelves for No.1’s room assembled (am Queen of the Flat Packs)
Unfinished business: Desks & shelves to mount, curtain to hang, rubbish to dump, sanity to retrieve.
State of house: Utter chaos
State of mind: Ditto


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.
And yet, feel strange sense of achievement.
(Note to self: Consider merits of behavioural therapy. Is it covered by Greek state health service? NO!)

Spent most of evening screwing with OH.
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).

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.

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.

And cardboard boxes – lots and lots of cardboard boxes.

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 (well, in our street at least).

It doesn’t take much to make me happy these days…
Ain’t domestic bliss grand?