Can it really have been four years already since the last Olympic games is the question I find myself asking frequently these days. You'll forgive me if I come over all nostalgic. I'm like a woman remembering the first flushes of being in love and watch the Athens 2004 Olympic ceremony as if it were my wedding video, with tears in my eyes, remembering how I felt at each moment. I begin to wonder, where will my life be by the time of the next Olympics if it's changed beyond recognition since the last one? Will I be an aunt? Will I be a mother? What will I look like? What will I be doing?

Life is all connected by a chain of events. My parents were both top athletes in their youth and used to take part regularly in athletic competitions. As a result of this, they worshipped the Olympics and watched it with great enthusiasm. Because of their ritual of watching the Olympics, all four of their highly unathletic, totally disinterested in sports offspring also marked the Olympics as landmark occasions. It was the only athletic event I watched with such dedication and the only one I ever wanted to go to.

Therefore, it follows that my parents are to blame for their own subsequent horror when I upped and left to live in Athens. If they had not been sporty, they would not have watched the Olympics and neither would their children. I would have not cultivated a lifelong desire to go to the Olympics and I would never have come to Athens.

The moral of the story is that if you want to keep your children close by, be a couch potato.

Olymics 2008 trailer - Bronze medal

The last few weeks you may have noticed the official Beijing Olympics advert running on TV. It was at this stage four years ago that I was watching the Athens 2004 trailers on TV and feeling sad about not having been picked to volunteer. Of course that was only because they took their own sweet time to get around to telling me that actually I was through.

Anyway, the Athens 2004 campaign captured what the Olympics were all about. For those of you who didn't catch it, this is what was running on the BBC in the build up and during the 2004 olympics. Nice, huh? Dignified, simple and to the point.

Contrast it to this which is running for the Beijing Olympics. Guys, I don't know who came up with this idea and who actually put it through, but I absolutely HATE it. For one thing, it's a shameless copy of 300 and furthermore, it's just so dark and miserable. And it's STUPID! Flying girl? Aquatic woman? I mean, what? Was this really the best they could do? The first time I saw it I thought it was a commercial for an energy drink. Bad, bad, bad. Does not capture the Olympic spirit at all. Whoever made this, go home and say 30,000 Hail Mary's.

You might think I am being harsh because I didn't get through to be a volunteer this year. That's not particularly true. There was a time when I felt put out by it - after you've volunteered once you kind of expect it as your right. But not any more, not at all. My spies on the ground, friends from 2004 who made it into the 2008 games and are in Beijing tell me that security is so tight that the fun has been sucked out of the events and these are being called the No Fun games.

Plus, no matter how spectacular the Beijing opening ceremony may be (and I've heard it will be the best ever), they don't have what Athens had. And I'm not talking about Mr Zeus. No Olympic event could be how it was in Athens. I'm talking about the life, the fun, the joy and the electric buzz. You know when you hear people talking about an electric atmosphere? I didn't really know what that was till I came to Athens for the 2004 Olympics. The whole place literally buzzed. It felt like the ground itself was oozing energy because it was happy that the Olympics were back where they started.

You can throw all the money you want at it, but nothing can recreate that magic. That's something that no amount of money can buy. And quite obviously from the Olympics trailer, no amount of money can buy good taste either. Sheesh.

Image: http://www.pjlighthouse.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/05/how-beijing-2008-olympic-medal-are-made-01.jpg

Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny

We went to Agistri this weekend, a small island about an hour by ferry from Pireaus. It was the first time I took to the water with gusto. Not a hint of fear or mental preparation, in fact while Mr Zeus was complaining about the asset shrinking properties of the water, I has already waded out neck deep. God bless the extra 1 or 2 kilos I put on since last summer. My butt cheeks act like flotation devices now. It's wonderful. Swiming is fun when you don't have to feel like a stick being dragged under the currents.

It made me think about how dizzyingly far I've come in the last four years. Four years ago I couldn't swim and was terrified of the sea. I also wouldn't hear of going in public in a bikini. When the issue of a summer by the sea came up, I said I had to go shopping to get a bathing suit.

Mr Zeus: "You mean a bikini."

Me: "Ha! In the next life maybe. There is no way I'm showing my body on the beach like that."

"But everyone wears a bikini here, even the haggy old ladies who you wish wouldn't wear them."

"So what. I have my values. I'm not wearing a bikini"

And so on and so forth, toing and froing until finally I agreed.

"Okay. I will buy a bikini."

"Good."

"But only on the condition that there's no one else on the beach when I wear it."

"!!! Where am I supposed to find an empty beach in the summer just for you?"

"That's not my problem."

Anyway, Mr Zeus wouldn't tolerate my shenanigans and dragged me off to the beach where I soon realised how conceited it was of me to think that I would peel off my clothes and the whole beach would come to a standstill and point at me, "Bollybutton is wearing a bikini!!! For shame! For shame! Don't look, little Jimmy, her heathen skin will turn you to stone!" When I realised no one was watching my every move and also that without my glasses I couldn't see them even if they were, it didn't seem all that terrible.

Over four years the trousers have turned into capri pants and then to shorts. Shirts turned into T-shirts and then to vests. Gypsy skirts that brushed my ankles crept up and over my knees. One begrudgingly bought bikini turned into four.

And I learnt that it's not a sin to enjoy the sun and sea on your skin.

Image: http://photos.ivillage.com/images/photos/resize/df_Motivate%20Me%20Photo%20Gallery_1166633842705_866632D.jpg

Road Tripping

I'm sitting here and typing with all the energy drained out of me. The reason is that this morning I had my first 1.5 hour driving lesson in Athens, in Athens traffic on a Monday morning, almost entirely in Greek.

The lesson itself wasn't all that bad. I just ran myself into the ground worrying about how the hell I was supposed to understand what to do in a Greek driving lesson. I went to bed with a migraine and woke up with my head pounding, terrified that the instructor would say left and, in my stressed state, I would go right and, well, you can fill in the gaps. You've all seen what Athens traffic is like. Let's just say I shave my legs every day only so that if the worst should happen the paramedics don't talk about my hairy legs in the ambulance.

But you know, it all turned out okay. I didn't stall once and the only time the instructor had to resort to English was when I kept hitting the gas on a turn while he was saying freno (brake). Finally he said, "Freno, brake re!"

Oh yeeeeaaaaaah, the lyric in Nikos Mixas's song goes Μα δεν πατάω το φρένο, not δεν πατάω το gas. By playing the song in my head, I didn't make that mistake again. We drove all the way out to Venillio, the kitchy clam-shaped nightclub where I'd partied till the break of dawn on Friday night.

I suppose I wasn't as terrible as I had predicted since the instructor turned up the radio and made a bunch of phone calls with me at the wheel, or rather on the wheel, stuck up against it as close as I could get as most anxious new drivers and little old ladies do. I noticed that people were significantly more tolerant of me in a car plastered with L plates than they were with me in a car with a N stuck on the back.

It was a whole other driving experience, especially the no rules roundabouts, not putting on the handbrake every time you stop the car and cross armed turning. I'm going to have to unlearn a few things I was taught in the UK. Actually I prefer the driving methods in Athens, it seems like I was being taught how to drive, not how to pass a test. Test driving in the UK is nothing like what people actually drive like.

I have two more morning sessions tomorrow and Wednesday, so I would advise you all to stay off the roads between 8.30 and 10 am. Now I am settled with a glass of red wine to try and soothe the stress headache that's been following me around all morning. Phew!

Image: http://lambert.to/euro2004/morocco/donkey-cart-parking.jpg

Foreign Territory

I was reading an article about life for Dubai's expat community after one of its members was arrested for public sex and it took me back to a conversation I had just before moving to Athens. I was having dinner and drinks with a friend who had spent six months working in Tokyo as an English teacher. "Let me give you a piece of advice for when you get to Athens," she said. I listened. "Whatever you do, avoid the expat community like the plague."

How interesting. Why exactly would one want to do that? Surely that's the first rule of moving to a new country? To seek out fellow country persons or at least people who speak English? "Trust me, it's a bad idea. You'll get stuck in this expat bubble, all they do is complain about the country they're posted in and not bother getting into the local culture because they know they'll leave again. And most importantly," she said, waving a fork in my direction "they are full of older men who live by the out of sight, out of mind policy and make a hobby out of cheating on their wives with young girls." Things got so dire for her on this front that she had to recruit a male friend to pose as her boyfriend.

I filed the advice away in the Moving to Athens part of my brain, not really thinking that life as a foreigner in Tokyo could be applied to Athens. The months passed, those lonely first months when I had few friends and those that I had were of the still-getting-to-know-you variety, and I was often very tempted to join in the expat community's events. But I resisted, and eventually the friends who did initially go to those events and then stopped told me exactly the same thing that my friend in London had, that the expat community generally looked down their noses at all things Greek, didn't bother learning the language since they'd be leaving in x amount of years anyway, and stuck within their own little bubble, rarely venturing beyond downtown Athens. The only people tended to know were other expats or self hating Greeks.

I have since had a few scattered run ins with expats at gatherings and events, and they left me exhausted. By and large I found them to have a what-can-you-do-for-me attitude, whereby they can't be bothered to get to know you because they like you, they will first try to guage how useful you might potentially be to them. They gush enthusiasm on meeting you but it was usually fake. There would always be that nudge nudge wink wink question "So... what do you think of Athens?" and they'd hiss "Really?" as if I'd said I like giving myself brazilian bikini waxes using nothing but tweezers when I'd say "I love my life here."

There's the "We simply have to meet up sometime" type who takes your number and never calls and the bored expat wife type who has made bitching about the place she lives her hobby. Her life revolves around tea parties with other bored expat housewives where they probably cry over the inavailability of baked beans or something.

I'm generalising here and I know it's mean to do so, but if you've met expats anywhere in the world, this will sound familiar. The Athens expats are so caught up in their little foreign downtown Athens bubble that ask one where in Glyfada they like to hang out and you'll see that most haven't even been that far out of the city centre.

The litmus test is that amongst the expats, I feel like a stranger, an oddity, looked down upon. I know that the moment Cassandra gets back to her all expenses paid apartment, she's only going to delete my number straight off her phone. When I go to the James Joyce pub, a nice place and expat watering hole, I usually feel like an apple in a crate of oranges.

I decided that yes indeed, if you want to get anything meaningful out of your life in Athens, or even just your time in Athens, expat groups are to be avoided. My foreign friends are people who like me came to make futures in Greece and used expat groups as a crutch until they established their own social circle, which is perfectly healthy. In the end it's up to each person to do whatever they think will ease their path into settling down, but sometimes the slower, harder option yields better results, nicer friends and a richer social life.

If you are an expat upset about what I wrote, I apologise. You're probably one of the nice expats I've never met anywhere, probably because you too were avoiding the other expats.

Image: http://www.internetvideomag.com/images/2007Movies_Products/Superficial_Friends.jpg

Nothings on a Monday

I have nothing in particular to talk about today so this is going to be one of those 'filler' posts. On Saturday I went to the laiki and it really helped me to get over my week in London. It was like therapy for the soul, all those beautiful and fragrant fruits and vegetables and gleaming fish.

We got home and I said to Mr Zeus that we are millionaires. Look, here are all our jewels - fat plums, shiny nectarines, juicy red grapes, fragrant green peppers and sweet melons - and here is our gold and silver - two beautiful ears of sweet yellow corn and glimmering sardines fresh from the sea.

You know what I could never understand in the UK? Why do they shrink-wrap corn cobs? It already comes in the most perfectly designed, biodegradable packing of its own.

Last night we went to the marina to watch a bartending competition. I like watching that sort of thing, you know, where they throw the bottles around and do tricks. It really impresses me that people can be that good at doing something. I don't know who won, we didn't stay long enough.

Also yesterday afternoon with no mood to do anything I was sprawled on the sofa watching a food programme on Mexico. Oh God, it was like food pornography. All that chilli and fresh coriander. And then they talked about Mexico's famous mole sauce, a sauce made of a host of delicious spices, chocolate and chilli. Chocolate. And chilli. Two of my favourite flavours at once. If I ever get to eat real mole, I might very well die of sensory overload, or at least faint like that woman who wore vibrating underwear to the supermarket. Mole is traditionally only supposed to be prepared by women. But of course! Who would better understand the pleasure-pain balance of chocolate and chilli than a woman?

Finally, I have bitten off more than I can chew and decided that instead of roaming around in the dark with my day job I should try to get a basic qualification that would help me understand the world of finance more. The home study kit arrived last week. I began unpacking and out came a calculator. Quelle horreur! Okay, it was pretty stupid of me to expect to get a financial qualification with no maths involved, but I am the worst person when it comes to numbers.

I dropped the box as if it were full of dead kittens. It's been sitting in a corner for a week and I know there's a time limit on this thing so I'll have to get started at some point.

If you're good at numbers, congratulations. We live in a world where intelligence and numeracy are very tightly linked. People will fawn over you if you can work out square roots without a calculator, but ain't no one going to be impressed if you can spell fancy words. Human calculator is a party trick. Human dictionary is not.

Image: http://img260.imageshack.us/img260/1196/bubbles1600nv0.jpg

This Is How We Do It

You are looking at a picture of plates of henna decorated by my sisters with glitter and candles. This is what awaited me when I got to my parents' house last Friday and began my journey to respectability. In the Home Country, women from the groom's side bring candle lit plates of henna to the henna party as a gift. Five year old Bollybutton used to throw terrible tantrums if denied this honour, and the older girls would each scrape up a bit of henna from their plates and stick a birthday candle in the middle to shut me up.

The night before the wedding is traditionally the night of the henna party. In the Home Country, the bride to be dresses in traditional henna colours like yellow or green, sometimes pink with a bit of yellow. I wore a green outfit the same exact colour as powdered henna. For me the henna party is the most fun part because traditionally it's all women and girls. In such an atmosphere, women tend to let their hair down, dance, relax and sing songs and do henna for the bride. It's really nice.

Mine was a mixed henna party since I couldn't exactly kick Mr Zeus out and I wanted him to witness the ceremony. One by one, everyone comes up and places a little bit of henna paste onto a leaf or a banknote on the bride's hand. They each feed her something sweet and in the Home Country, small denomination bank notes are circled over the bride's head to remove the evil eye and placed in a pot. That money will later go to charity.

The henna and the sweets are to wish you a long and happy marriage. Also henna on a bride's hand serves as a nannycam for her parents. They say that the darker your henna is, the more your mother-in-law will love you. My Dad says this is because in a traditional set up, the bride would go to live with her husband in his home with his parents. A few days after the wedding the bride traditionally returns to visit her parent, and they could guage whether she was being put to work in the house or treated well by how quickly or slowly the henna on her hands faded.

After this ceremony comes all the singing and the dancing. Someone plays a little drum called a dholki and the rest clap to keep the rhythm (listen here for an example). We didn't sing a lot of songs because there were so few of us and unusually for the bride at a henna party I sang songs too. I love this part of the henna party because it usually ends with everyone collapsing with laughter as they try to remember the lyrics to songs that have been sung since anyone can be bothered to remember. My grandmother probably sang the same songs at henna parties when she was a girl.

Henna party songs tend to be fun, fiesty and a little bit risque, but that's characteristic of the part of the Home Country I'm from, we're famous for being the most musical and charismatic people. Here are some of the songs we sang, translated of course:

1. (In answer to Asia's obsession with fair skin)

Black, blackety black,

My sweetheart is dark so the whities can all get lost (we stopped after realising we were being racist towards my English brother-in-law)

2. (famous movie song that became inexlicably connected to henna parties, which you can watch here if you can bothered)

What business do you have in my courtyard?

Even those with a reputation are disgraced

If your wife's tall, you have a good reputation

Lean her against your house, what do you need a staircase for?

What business do you have in my courtyard? (chorus)

If your wife's fat, you have a good reputation
If your wife's fat, oh fatty, oh fatty fatty fatty

Lay her on the bed, what do you need a mattress for?

(chorus)

If your wife's black, you have a good reputation

Put her in your eyes, what do you need eyeliner for?

And so on and so on about the various shapes and sizes your wife could be and what they're useful for.

3.

The henna will darken on your hands

The drum will play all night

When you leave with your beloved
Don't forget these days and nights

His land waits for you

He sings songs in your name

Here comes a procession of happiness

Bringing a shower of colours

They sound pretty lame in English. There are so many more, and the sad thing is I sing them all without knowing what half the words mean because they're in a dialect I can semi speak. It drives my father mad, but we only ever spoke it when we went to the village so it got rusty. There are happy songs and sad songs because back in the day when the girl got married and left, her family didn't know when they would see her again if she moved far away.

The next morning we both got dressed in our wedding finery and took lots of pictures and then waiting for the man who was doing the ceremony to arrive. It's quite nice and simple, really. As part of the deal in countries where my religion is the main one, both parties make marriage contracts which are signed at the ceremony.

At this stage, the bride can request a payment from the groom which then belongs entirely to her. I suppose it was a way of providing the bride with some financial security in case she needed it or got divorced, because she can keep that money if they get divorced. This money, or mahr can be whatever amount or form the bride requests it in. One Iranian bride asked for 124,000 roses as her mahr and took her husband to court to get it when he didn't deliver!

I was far more lenient and set my mahr at EUR 150, an amount so low that the guy doing the ceremony called me back into the room to make sure I had actually requested that much and whether I accepted Mr Zeus as my husband. I said "Yes" and went back into the next room.

In the ceremony the bride and groom are kept in separate rooms and the theory is that this was to protect the bride. During the ceremony, each party is asked three times whether they accept the marriage or not. Maybe due to cultural reasons the bride might feel shy to say she accepts the marriage while her husband is there. Also, she may be being coerced into a marriage she doesn't want. By being out of sight of the groom, she might feel a little bolder to say no to the marriage, and in the true form of my religion, not the Al Qaeda form, a marriage is void if the bride or the groom is being forced into it.

Anyway, ceremony over we were reunited and got a little talk about how we must be kind to each other and take care of each other. I was reminded to take care of my spirituality because heaven is under the feet of a mother and one day I might be a mother.

We took a break and changed our clothes into something more relaxed, then we went out and had dinner. And that was that! I have my cousins as witnesses and a scrappy piece of paper with both our names and the amount of mahr on it as proof, and now I can say "I'm a married woman, you can't tell me what to do!" to my critics.

Image: My own

The Land that Sense Forgot

I got a comment today asking me why I haven't posted in so many days and I am touched that someone noticed! I have been recovering from a nerve shattering trip to the UK. On Sunday at the airport I bought a book which I settled down to read on the flight to discover that I have not only already read this book, I already own it. So you can understand my frame of mind after a week of rain and grey in the UK. I need to take a week off with my head buried inside a giant watermelon.

On Sunday I sat in an Olympic airways flight stuck at the hell hole that is Heathrow, in pouring rain, one hour delayed, in 14C in July and waited for the golden moment the plane took off and took me away from my increasingly despised birthplace. When the captain gave a speech in Greek over the intercom about how hard they are trying to keep Olympic going despite fines and bans on chartering flights and thanked us for helping their fight by flying Olympic, we all clapped. When the flight touched down in Athens to a July night of 25C, we clapped. I swear, I have tears in my eyes thinking about how happy I was when we landed and left the airport to the warm embrace of summer and the scent of life.

I was right about moving to Greece and on this trip I felt it more keenly than ever before. I feel like a stranger in London being swept along the anonymous faces, the constant rushing, the mind-your-own-business attitude which leaves me scared to get caught up in any trouble because I know people are less likely to help me than they would if I were in Athens. In my one week in London, five young people were fatally stabbed. The sixth died the day I landed. Six young people dead for no good reason - the nation should be on the streets in disgust and yet they do nothing.

When I got a humiliating dressing down from a bank clerk for being in possession of my father's card because my own had stopped working, this in spite of the fact that I was at the counter to replace the money I had used during the week and not to withdraw funds, I boiled with frustration.

"Do you expect a father to leave his daughter without any money for a week? He was trying to help me and you can call him now to check, I have his permission to use the card."

"No one except your father should have the card or the pin number, it's breach of contract."

"But do you understand what I'm telling you, it was an emergency situation and anyway I am putting money into his account not taking it out."

"If we catch you using this card again we will have to remove it from you. Your father is in breach of his terms and conditions by you having the card and the pin number."

"But I'm his daughter and he knows I have his card! Why is it such an issue for a father to lend his daughter his card?"

"Next time get him to write a letter or add you onto the card or we will have to cancel it."

"Why should he write a letter, I'm only here for one week! Can't you understand that I have my own bank card but it has stopped working so I needed this in an emergency till I get the replacement?"

"You shouldn't have his card."

What I see in the UK is the slow death of common sense and mental flexibility as everyone tries to cover their own backsides and screw you if you get in the way. Morons are slowly taking over the country. I fired off an email to Mr Zeus saying I hoped the UK got global warmed into oblivion and sank into the sea, which I admit is a little harsh and I do take back, but I don't apologise for how my one week in London made me feel like I was constantly banging my head against a wall.

So yes, it feels terrific that I was right to leave the UK. I took a gamble and I hit the jackpot. I always hated life in the UK and I am eternally grateful that I took up the opportunity to leave. Otherwise, what would I be doing? Turning green from the lack of sun, doing my nine-to-five and eating my watery tomatoes, sobbing onto my Prozac in front of a light box as a I tried to fend off my annual four month winter depression. If you are a young person living in the UK, reading this and thinking of leaving, let me tell you: Leave. Do it now by whatever means. There's nothing left in the UK any more.

And also, now I am part of respectable Home Country society since I had my religious marriage over the weekend. It feels great that now I can give out my number to friends in the Home Country and not have to worry about Mr Zeus picking up when they ring. More on the ceremony in another post.

Image: http://www.psychopanic.com/images/imwithstupid.jpg

Pick Me Up Before You Go Go

Yesterday evening someone used a pickup line on me for the very first time in my life. You know, one of the classic straight-from-the-book lines. I was rushing to meet a friend downtown and a man stopped me. And what do you know, it was a Creepy Older Man. Oh no, Bollybutton never ever attracts hot young things, just the Creepy Older Men!!!! Why?!?

"Excuse me," said Creepy Older Man in english.

Thinking he was a lost tourist and wanting to flaunt my local knowledge, I stopped.

"If beauty was a sin, you would surely go to hell. I see you're in a rush but I would have loved to have taken you for a drink sometime."

"Thanks, but I'm married." Not exactly a lie, I am practically married.

I told this story to my Greek friend S who I was rushing to meet and she said, "That's weird. A guy used the exact same copy-paste line on me once."

"Where?"

"At the end of the street where we go for dance class."

I don't believe it! This Creepy Older Man is a pigeon. He sits there all day using this exact same line, even the bit about taking you for a drink if you weren't in a hurry, the same way that male pigeons strut around after the females. Have you ever seen this? He'll strut up to one female and if she rejects him he just puffs out his chest and keeps on strutting. Eventually someone will say yes and he might get his groove on.

I don't get it. When Mr Zeus goes out all the sweet young things flock around him. They flock around him even when we're together goddammit! Why do I only get Creepy Older Men? Is it the glasses? I don't even attract the handsome and incredibly charming type of older man, just the creepy kind.

Image: http://i5.photobucket.com/albums/y182/Uzirider/my%20space/old-man.jpg

Pak Indian - Nil Points for Betraying Me

Most people in Athens have heard of Pak Indian Restaurant, located at 13 Menandrou Street in downtown Athens. It boasts being Athens' first Indian food restaurant. I had never been there until Saturday and have decided to put my thoughts up as a review for you, my readers.

About a year ago I went to another Indian restaurant, Iskandar and the food was good except none of it was spicy and it was way too expensive. To make Indian food that has everything right except the spice and price is like making a Greek salad, leaving out the feta and charging EUR 15 for it. Still, the place is beautiful and the service very good. The staff were great to me, and I don't think it's because I can speak their language.

So I thought I'd try Pak Indian too and see where my quest for authentic Indian food in Athens led me. A few doors away I was buying mangoes and asked the guy if Pak Indian was any good. "Yes it is," he said "because I own it!"

As I approached the establishment, I noticed a sign on the door that said chicken curry EUR 3, chicken biryani EUR 2. Bonus! I was schooled in the Home Country and this sign was written in Home Country, kind of like when you go to a Chinese restaurant with a Chinese friend, they always bring out a special menu that the likes of you would never otherwise have the chance of seeing.

Z2 was with me and we took a table. We ordered vegetable pakora (bhaji), chicken korma, chicken biryani, channa dal (yellow pea curry) and two Lahori paratha which is a type of flat bread. I spoke to the waiter and ordered in Home Country, asking for the food to be properly spiced the way we eat it. Hooray! I thought. All those years of Home Country schooling are finally coming in use for something - reading the discount menu!

The pakoras were pretty good even though they were quite a stingy amount, only four in a portion. Still, they tasted almost as good as what I make at home, ahem, so the meal looked to be starting well.

And then it all went downhill. Next up was the chicken biryani. Biryani is a rice dish that is supposed to be made by layering raw rice with a spicy mixture of either meat or vegetables, sometimes with raisins or apricots, and drizzled with saffron infused milk before cooking to give biryani its distinct half yellow half white rice. The combination is then steamed over a low heat to cook the rice. As it cooks all the ingredients mingle. Eating a good biryani is like unwrapping a present where each layer contains a surprise. I've eaten biryani in the best places for it, including the Indian city of Hyderabad which specialises in this type or rice, and of course my own mother's biryani which is outstanding because that's the city she comes from.

What a biryani should never, ever be is a plate of oily rice dyed - DYED - with yellow food colouring, piled on top of what I knew was just a bit of chicken curry dished out of the cooking pot and microwaved with the rice. Okay, it was still the best biryani I have had in Athens, but for the reputation that Pak Indian has as the best Indian food in Athens, I have to tell you guys, you are being cheated. This was a cut-corner biryani. It shouldn't even have been allowed to call itself biryani.

Next came the channa dal, a curry made with split yellow peas that look a bit similar to fava. Lucky for us channa dal is a dish that needs to be slowly cooked so there was no quick fix way to flog us a fake version. What we ate had been cooked for hours and it tasted that way. The channa dal was delicious eaten with the Lahori paratha. Not nearly as spicy as I would have liked, but still pretty good.

After this brief hiatus came the chicken korma. Chicken korma is a creamy chicken curry cooked with yoghurt and coconut milk. It normally has a pale, golden colour imparted by searing the chicken and frying the onions until they turn brown.

What I was served - oh God it pains me to even talk about it - looked like someone drank a mango milkshake, swallowed some chicken and vomited it onto a plate. It was the ugliest chicken korma I have ever seen. No flecks of spices in the jaundiced sauces which were coloured again with food colouring, not even a sprinkling or fresh coriander leaves. And it tasted appalling. What was it? I wanted to throw it across the room in disgust. I wanted to shout "Take this aborted foetus of a curry away from me and give it a decent burial!"

The meal was over and we waited for the bill. Oh well, I thought, at least we will get the special price on account of me being from the Home Country. But we DID NOT. For the two of us, the above menu, a bottle of water and 3 beers the bill was EUR 50. I laughed, No way, I thought. So I called the waiter back and said that on the door you have curries for EUR 3 and chicken biryani for EUR 2, why are you charging me EUR 10 for the biryani and EUR 9 for the *shudder* korma?

"That's a different type" he lied. "Much less elaborate curry and biryani."

I might have forgiven Pak Indian for the pseudo-biryani. I might even have forgiven them for the vomit-on-a-plate korma and the one solitary Bollywood track playing in a loop. But what I could not and will not forgive is the thieving way they charged me the outsiders' prices because I looked like I could afford them.

They betrayed me, one of their own, their own compatriot who after all these years kept alive the skill to read a language from right to left in the hopes of some perks, some discount, the instant calling card that says We are the Same.

If you were a Greek in a foreign country and you went to a Greek restaurant with a special Greeks Only menu, you would be charged the Fellow Greek price even if you looked like a millionaire. Heck, even I would get the discount simply for being an Asian girl who can read Greek. That's the way it's supposed to work, Pak Indian, do you hear?

The whole meal I was consolling Z2 that at least we'll get the discount price because of me. I have seldom felt so ashamed to be in the presence of my own Home Countriers and be treated this way. Thank God I didn't take my father there and dash his ideal of Home Countriers sticking together and taking care of each other in foreign lands.

Pak Indian, I wish I worked for a newspaper so this review could be made public. Your food was crap, your prices are shameful but most of all, I am never again going to part with a single one of my pennies for you because you committed the worst sin there is - you betrayed me, your own fellow country person and charged her non-compatriot prices.

Shame on you! Readers, whatever you may have heard from Pak Indian, you are being cheated of your money for painfully sub-standard Indian food. Take it from me who was raised on this cuisine and have eaten in many good Indian restaurants - Pak Indian is rubbish and if that's the best they can do and make people believe it's the best Indian food in Athens, then I should open my own restaurant and wipe the floor with them.

Image: http://www.boloji.com/cinema/motherindia/mi18.jpg

Bollybutton Barefoot

I used to have this nightmare that I was walking around doing my usual stuff and suddenly noticed I had no shoes on. In the dream, I would cringe with humiliation as people started noticing I was wearing no shoes, and I would wonder "What's the matter with me? How could I leave the house without wearing any shoes?"

Last night this scenario sort of became a reality. I got punished for moaning about how boring my life has been lately. Last week I had so much work I didn't have time to change out of my pyjamas for two days. For two weeks the only time I have left the house has been for one supermarket trip, one laiki trip and one coffee with a friend. That's it. The rest of the time I've been holed up inside working and feeling sorry for myself.

Yesterday after work let up a bit I went for dance class. I didn't really feel like dancing, I just wanted to hang out somewhere, so I went to hang out at dance class. Everyone was tired yesterday. We all flopped around like wilted flowers and exchanged our various complaints: too much work, too hot, no man, stupid man, etc.

On leaving class going home seemed like the worst idea to me. I needed to be out and so I bought a drink from a kiosk and took a stroll by the Acropolis.

I walked along in the beautiful summer evening, feeling smug at the tourists who would eventually have to leave the place I lived in, and walked all the way to Thissio where I met up with my Turkish friend A who was watching the Germany-Portugal match in a pub. We caught up briefly and after slobbering over a few gratuitous Christiano Ronaldo shots, I left as I had to catch the metro to get home.

Outside as I walked along and felt sad about having to return home, I tripped up. When I tried to keep walking the right slipper flew off my foot. It had snapped in a completely inconvenient, non fixable way.

So there I was, stranded in a very busy tourist area with three choices:

a) stay here as I am and wait to be rescued by someone willing to let me have their shoes for the night

b) walk around with one slipper on

c) bite the bullet and walk around barefoot

Being barefoot struck me as slightly less ridiculous than having only one slipper on. So I took a deep breath and began to walk. It's situations like this when being a foreigner comes in very handy; you just walk around radiating a tourist vibe like "Look at me, I'm just a tourist and I don't know any better."

Now, all ladies will be familiar with the post-club routine of walking home barefoot with your high heels in one hand. That's fine, we do that. But who walks around with their flip flops in one hand unless they're on the beach?

I went to Thissio and when the metro machines rejected my coins I decided I wouldn't ride the metro barefoot and then wait barefoot for a bus. I'd take a taxi. But there were none to be found. And so I walked up Ermou from Thissio to Monastiraki, along marble footpaths, along dirt footpaths, brick, pebble, tarmac and a building site strewn with sand and broken glass. It was like a video game: dodge the broken glass and get an extra 10 points if you find a taxi.

It was hilarious so I called Mr Zeus to tell him. "Don't worry," he said "in the summer tourists do that when they get too hot." Well if that's true then there are some pretty stupid tourists around because the ground was no cooler than a pair of shoes, having soaked up 41C worth of heat during the day.

"There you go," I thought to myself "you said your life was boring, well here you are. Walking around downtown Athens barefoot, attracting weird looks and looking enviously at those who have shoes to wear."

After a 10 minute shoeless trek I managed to flag down a taxi and the first thing he said when I got in was "Why aren't you wearing any shoes kale?" I held up the broken slipper "They broke! And you never think of carrying a spare pair, do you!"

When I told the story to Z2 this morning, he told me a story about how he'd been riding his bike at the crack of dawn once and saw a barefoot woman waiting for a taxi, high heels in one hand and thought it was one of the sexiest things he'd ever seen. But what does he know, bare anything on a woman is one of the sexiest things he's ever seen.

So there you have it. If you saw a woman walking around barefoot last night in Thissio with flip flops in one hand, I confess it was me. It's lucky for me my embarrassment threshold is so high.

Image: http://farm1.static.flickr.com/66/190674662_62cc9d13fd.jpg?v=0

Saawariya. Sorry for You

Last night after a walk with a friend I stopped by the local video club to see if there was anything worth picking up. Flicking through the new release section, I stopped in my tracks. In front of me was a sight I couldn't believe, a sight that both amazed and appalled me. It was a Bollywood DVD. New release. Rental ticket missing.

There was joy because a new Bollywood movie and not some art cinema offering was out in the local neighbourhood super-Greek video rental store, and someone had rented it.

There was also horror. Because this movie is one of a 3-in-1 DVD I bought downtown last Saturday for EUR 3. And it's bad. Appallingly bad. Big budget, unknown main cast, more money than sense, all style and no substance, a song every ball-breaking 7 minutes. The performance of the two new lead actors was so boring and bland I wanted to take them and roll them in chilli and lemon to spice it up a bit.

This movie is called Saawariya. I can just imagine the poor person who rented this DVD and sat at home thinking "Ti malakia einai auti? (what bullshit is this?)" and be put off Bollywood for life.

Let me tell you about Bollywood movies. They are supposed to be all song and dance, colours and unbelievable story lines. But the makers of Saawariya insult the intelligence of even the most die-hard Bollywood fan by thinking "If we make it big budget with a fancy set, no one will notice that actually nothing at all happens for 3 hours."

The plot didn't so much twist and turn as roll over in bed and fart. What a disappointment.

Why? When there are so many good movies why did that crap fest Saawariya make it to DVD release in the local video club? Why not Om Shanti Om with my beloved Shah Rukh Khan? That was at least entertaining in how it made fun of itself.

To the person who rented the movie, my sincere apologies. Next time you're in the mood for some Bollywood just borrow one of my DVDs for free.

Read more scathing reviews of Saawariya here and here. And don't rent it!

Image: http://i.indiafm.com/firstlook/saawariya.jpg

The Perfect Peponi

On Saturday I passed another rite of passage for any child of the 80s whose mother threw frequent dinner parties - my first melon baskets, marking my transition from pizza parties to dinner hostess. And not just any melon baskets.

I was doing my usual Saturday laiki shop and picked up a melon. The man on the stall put it back and picked up another one for me, assuring me his choice was better.

And wow, was he ever right. This melon, this peponi of my dreams, was absolutely perfect. One day before or one day later and it would have been less perfect. It was at its absolute, glorious peak of perfection. The first sign that it would be that good was when I opened my backpack to unload my shopping and a sweet smell wafted out. You can tell a good melon by the smell. Once I embarked on a futile mission in a London supermarket smelling melons while a bemused friend looked on and asked me what the hell I was doing.

"Trying to find a sweet one."

"And you'll do that by smelling it!"

"Of course!"

Oh, the tragedy of life in the UK with it's bland supermarket fruit.

I got to work on the melon and a small watermelon we had bought turning them into baskets, my mother's summer desert of choice at a dinner party. I ate the cut offs and I have to tell you, this was the most perfect peponi I have eaten in decades. A melon that good only turns up once every 10 years and I was the one who got it.

That evening I admitted to my guests that I was becoming a total grandma or housewife or something, because all day I had been so happy about this perfect peponi. I wanted to shout it from the rooftops: I found the perfect melon, the best melon in the entire laiki! They agreed with me when they tried it though, and my Irish friend fell about laughing at how enthusiastically I had resurrected this 80s party trick.

Melon baskets, people. Don't knock it till you've tried it. Instructions for a melon basket much fancier than mine can be found here. You will need a melon baller, an instrument like a mini icecream scoop which looks like this and can be found at Alpha Beta supermarket.

That's another reason I love summers in a hot climate. They remind you so strongly of the really simple and most rewarding pleasures in life, like cold glasses of water on hot afternoons, painting your toenails neon pink or the perfect slice of melon.

Image:http://www.tandmpics.com/280/4/409.jpg

Gold Hoop Jumping

There are some things in life you don't even notice until it becomes a possibility that you can't have it any more. This is what I thought about my life, having been a good Home Country girl who turned the balance upside down and didn't do things the acceptable route of meeting, dating, engagement, marriage, living together. When my older sister got married and went through the ceremonies, I could see the contentment on her face: "I did it the right way and I earned this". Never mind, I thought, I made my choices and I would be happy with them too. There would be no emotional kiss on the forehead from my father as he handed me over to my new life - I beat him to that two years ago when I boarded an Olympic Airlines flight alone from London to Athens.

So when I found multiple missed calls on my mobile and a frantic message from my mother that she'd been trying to call me, I became worried. She called again as I began to dial "BB where have you been I've been trying to call you!"

Panic

"Is everything ok mum? What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. I just need to know your bangle size."

"My bangle size? What for?"

"Your cousin is coming from the Home Country and Dad and me wanted to give you gold bangles like we gave your sister when she got married. For your Ceremony."

On hearing this, the modern woman in me launched into a dialogue about how I didn't need gold bangles and it was okay. Actually, I didn't feel I had earned them because I didn't do things the right way. The next time I go to the UK Mr Zeus and I will indeed take part in a small ceremony at my parent's house which in Home Country terms makes us officially married. Gold bangles are the traditional mark of a married woman. Modern Bollybutton said not to worry, but Mum insisted. And traditional Bollybutton smiled.

It's not the bangles and the fact that they are gold - I'm not much of a fan of gold. It's the thought that I will receive a rite of passage which I didn't believe I would get or deserve. No matter how 21st Century I may be, a part of me will always be a Home Country girl. I don't know if that's Having It All, or just a confusing way to live!

I will finally be able to tell my best friends in the Home Country I am married and I won't have to hide my life in Athens any more.

And in case you're wondering, my bangle size is 2.4.

Image: http://images0.like.com/product-images--4a408d322416f3a42aa167a97a42105aaa4bcb8e-5ec2ec46e4617682--jpg_sqthumb_large--bracelets-guess-gold-bangles.jpg

A Perfect Sunday

Yesterday was one of those perfect summer days. Mr Zeus and I packed ourselves off to spend the afternoon with his eccentric aunty who lives in a lavish, sea-view retirement apartment which she acquired somewhere along her life of liaising with very rich men. Some might say that her childless life and faded looks with only two little dogs and a cat for company is rather tragic, but I say with a view like hers, a little-piece-of-heaven garden and a swimming pool in spitting distance, who gives a flying divorce settlement??

The pool as it turns out was filled with sea water which was a bonus for me. I have blogged many times that I'm scared of getting into the water because I can barely swim. So I had to go through my usual psyching myself up routine before I got into the water.

In the course of my two years in Athens - and as of last Friday it has been officially two years - I have finally reached a healthy weight. Family feuds, doubts, settling down issues all made me drop weight like there was no tomorrow. As the fog began to clear, as I settled into my life and my father started talking to me again like the old times, my weight has normalised and my body has flourished. Sometimes I stand infront of the mirror after a shower slapping my thighs and enjoying the new sensation of how they vibrate.

The point of this is that the extra two or three kilos have made me float so much better and yesterday I had a really great time swimming around. I actually enjoyed it because I didn't feel like I'm going to sink every few minutes.

Swimming over, I sat on Aunty's terrace drinking in the blue skies, blue seas, pink bouganvilla. It felt like my first true summer day of the summer so far. In the Homeland that total sense of peacefulness is called the coolness of your heart. I was so blissful that I wondered if my senses were going into overdrive when the ground beneath me rattled, but as we later learnt that was the Patra earthquake.

On the way home we sat in the traffic making cruel comments about young things in the fancy cars that their daddies and sugar daddies had bought them. Gotta have the hot car! I recently heard of someone we know with no earning capacity who took out a EUR 15,000 loan to buy a Mercedes. Smart move in these credit crunch times, but then that's the Greeks for you: sunbathe today and think about the burn tomorrow.

Image:http://www.snapscot.com/post/040904/040904BackyardBouganvilla.jpg

Dancing Queens - and King

Lately in dance class an interesting event has taken place. We have our first male belly dance student who attends classes with his wife. Having a male in our formerly all-female environment has turned us all into raving banshees who tease this guy mercilessly. Last week during warm up, one of the girls was talking about something and said loukaniko (sausage) when she meant to say something else. We all looked at our resident male ... there was a split second of silence and we all howled with laughter.

Yesterday going through warm up the teacher fetched a stick for our guy to place across his back to demonstrate how he should keep his back straight as he bends forward. As she produced the large stick, I shouted "Xilo!" (wood) and the guy scrambled to get away from the phallic looking instrument while our teacher chased him around the room with it. Today my stomach muscles hurt not from all the stretching but all the laughing. We laugh more than we dance these days as we jokingly tease our resident male. He has done a pretty brave thing to enter an all-female environment like ours.

Dance class is turning into the highlight of my week. Lately I have so much work to do that my fingers are aching as I type this. I'm all bent out of shape from sitting here at the computer. I cherish my 1.5 hours a week when I can stretch, reach, drop and undulate to work out all the cobwebs in my joints, but mostly I cherish it for the company.

After a really long time M came to class again. M is perpetually stressed and sarcastic and I adore that she doesn't hide how she's feeling for the sake of anyone. "Where did you disappear to?" she barked, "I thought you got left back in India."
"No way, I went to India, I shopped and I came back."
"Is that so? I hate you."
"And what should I do since I love you M?"
"Ante!"

S jumped in "Bollybutton's not going back, we won't let her. She's ours now!"

Amid all this there is usually a flurry of costume exchanging to see who likes what, three people talking to me at the same time to place orders, beauty tips, relationship advice and the teacher shouting that someone owes her money.

The dancing itself is starting to take a backseat in what's become my favourite 1.5 hours of the week.

It'll Be All Write

When I meet new people, I automatically tell them I'm a journalist because that's what I always wanted to do. It's not exactly a lie, I do freelance on the side of my regular job. At the photo exhibition I wrote about, my Turkish friend A introduced me to the fascinating circle she moves in. I shook hands with a man, let's call him Bob, and exchanged the usual so-what-do-you-do. "I'm a journalist," he replied, to which I gasped with delight and gushed "I'm a journalist too!! Who do you work for?"

And there in the soft lights of the market, in front of a photo of a gypsy wedding, Bob said "Al Jazeera. How about you?"

Damn. I was in the presence of journalism royalty. Crap cakes! "Oh you know, no one really. Mostly health and beauty stuff..." Me telling someone from Al Jazeera that I'm a journalist is like being an extra on a sitcom and telling Angelina Jolie you're an actress too. I didn't suppose he'd heard of Black Beauty and Hair magazine or would be at all impressed that I just submitted an article on the dangers of antiperspirant, so I cut my losses and fled to the next photographic display.

Every time this happens I feel myself shrink a little, and a little more, and a little more. A is so well-connected and I met so many important journalist types on that night that by the time I left I was so tiny I had to watch out for falling cigarette butts as I walked home.

Working for any of the big names - Al Jazeera, the BBC etc. - would be my dream and it's a dream I hope I'll achieve. I spent a lot of my early 20s getting my knickers into a twist at how many doors kept slamming in my face and annoyed with myself that I wasn't the journalist type who sells their grandma for a scoop to make it big.

However, the truth is that I'm quite happy with the pace things are moving at for me. After years in the wilderness knocking on doors, I am perfectly satisfied that once in a while I'll write something about how good olive oil is for you or 101 ways to wear a sari and manage to flog it. All I really ever wanted to do with my life is write, and I'm writing, so that'll do just fine for me.

A rather more unfortunate side effect of telling people I write for women's magazines is that they clasp their hands together and say "Oh wow! Like Carrie Bradshaw!"

Oh God! Being a freelance, female, curly haired writer automatically makes you Carrie Bradshaw? Someone help! And tragically, even in that instance I end up correcting them by saying things like "Oh no, not at all like Carrie Bradshaw. No where near as successful!"

Image: http://www.microcosmpublishing.com/catimages/typewriter.gif

Post to Summer

The bad news is that my birthday month is over. The good news is that it's June and things can only get hotter! Ellas Devil has made his blog look beautiful and summery - how does he do that? - and posted a meme for summer which I have taken upon myself to complete:

Summer Meme

Favorite summer flowers?
Favourite all round flowers - sunflowers and jasmine

Favorite flavors of ice cream?
Vanilla and strawberry

Favorite mode of transportation?
The bus - you see more that way

Favorite summer track?
Will Smith's Summer Time, it ain't summer till the radios start playing that!

Favorite summer food?
Mango and fried calamari

Favorite summer game?
Wow, this made me realise how lazy I am. People watching, like Spot the Fake Boobs, Spot the Feuding Couple and Spot the Guy who overcompensates For Other Shortcomings With An Overbuffed Body and Babe Magnet Car.

Earliest childhood summer memory?
Playing with matches while my parents took a siesta, looking at the sky during powercuts.

Favorite summer drink?
Lychee cocktail!

Favorite summer snack?
A nice cool slice of melon.

Favorite place to read?
Curled up on my newly summerfied sofa

Most annoying thing about summer?
It doesn't last long enough.

How I handle the heat?
By removing clothes. If I'm outside the house, by drinking ice cold drinks

Pet summer peave?
It's hunting season. The mere possession of XX chromosomes gets you cat called and whistled at all day.

All time favorite bathing suit?
My own skin.

Best time of the day?
Dusk in the summer when you've had a full day and you feel like Aaaaahh... that was truly a great summer day.

Most romantic summer activity?
Peeling grapes for your beloved

Favorite summer movie?
Anything with a summer theme

Summer is your most favorite season because?
Because it's the season of growth, heat, inspiration and the only time of year when I don't feel cold all.The.Bloody.Time. I can go out in the evening without a coat and a scarf just in case or a shawl just in case or whatever. I can pack away the hot water bottle I sit on the rest of the year because my buttocks don't need continuous defrosting. Yay summer! Stay for 12 months!

Image:http://www.comedyfestival.com.au/participation/2007/images/mc/197.56.thumb_large.smells_song_100_02.jpg

Look Good Enough to Eat

It's hunting season and bikini weather is upon us. So time to buff those bodies up to perfection!

I'm into homemade therapies and discovered to my delight that a friend from bellydancing class is too. When we chatted together during break she gave me her recipe for an amazing body scrub that she uses on herself. I made it last night and though I had to resist the urge to eat a spoonful of the mix, my legs are now buffed to perfection.

For a leg scrub you will need:

2 - 3 tablespoons of sugar

one small piece of cinnamon pounded to a coarse powder or 1/4 tsp ground cinnamon

1/2 a teaspoon lemon or orange zest

olive oil

Method:

Add the olive oil to the sugar to make a crumbly paste. Add the cinnamon and lemon/orange zest. Mix it all up and scrub it thoroughly over your legs after you have washed and soaped. Rinse off. Your legs will be silky smooth and the sheen of oil left behind will nourish your skin.

Sexy times!

You know, I was told a few times by foreign women living in Athens that it is impossible for foreign women to make female Greek friends. They said that Greek women treated them with such hostility and suspicion that they had found it impossible to form any friendships with them.

Well, this is what I have found: there is a certain broad spectrum of Greek woman who will not ever want to be friends with you. But that's because she won't ever want to be friends with any woman. She views every other woman as a threat and a rival. She has female friends but she doesn't trust them. Such women are paranoid and rude to me and all other women but syrupy sweet to men. Thankfully I never have to mix with them in a social setting because not even Mr Zeus's female friends, who I count as my own, are like that.

The only place I regularly come into contact with Greek women outside of Mr Zeus's social circle is bellydancing class. Here, the girls welcomed me from the start. They were friendly to me and curious about where I was from. They took me under their wing and never once made me feel like I was any less than them. Am I friends with them? I'd like to think so. Am I good friends with them? No, but that's my own fault because I let the language barrier stop me from calling them up and arranging meetings outside of class so we can know each other better. I plan to work on this, because these are personalities I would feel disappointed to let out of my life.

At the end of the day, people in Athens react to you mostly the way you react to them. If you are rude, they are rude back. If they extend the hand of friendship and you don't take it, they will stop offering. After all, why should they chase me around to be my best friend if I'm not interested? It's already happened to me and I learnt my lesson.

So in my experience that myth of Greek women not making friends with foreign women has turned out to be totally untrue. Women might not have wanted to be friends with me because I was acting like a snooty cow, not because I am foreign and with one of their men. You take a little, you give a little.

With that in mind, here is the face scrub recipe I gave in return for the body scrub:

You will need:

2 tablespoons of gram flour (source from health shops or the Indian shops off Athinas street)

Rosewater, milk or plain water

Method:

Mix the flour and rosewater/milk/water into a thick cream and spread all over your face. Rub it in for five minutes and leave to set. Rinse off. Use rosewater to soften and refresh, milk if you have very dry skin and water if you have normal skin. A really good exfoliant and skin tightener.

So from Asia I give you a lovely face and from Greece I give you gorgeous legs. What more does a girl need?

Image: http://lib.store.yahoo.net/lib/pretika/st120scrub.jpg

What to Do with Free Porno CDs

In one year I have transformed from someone who killed anything I touched into a novice gardener. So much so, that it's getting out of control. The first thing I do when I wake up is peer over the balcony to check the levels of molestation my pea plants might have endured the night before. I have to force myself to go to bellydancing class because all I really want to do these days with my evening is pour a glass of ice cold water and poke around amongst my plants, repotting this and weeding that, checking on my sickly lemongrass seedlings and inspecting the growth of my plumeria. I nearly fainted with joy at discovering my first tiny pea pod yesterday. This is the rock and roll life I lead.

So where do the free porno CDs come in? Well, it wasn't some cheap ploy to get people on Google searches redirected to my blog, though God knows plenty of them end up here looking for Big Fat Hairy Naked Greeks.

My pea plants, my babies, have endured a double assault since their first days. Not only are they being attacked by whiteflies, but pigeons regularly enjoy feasting on their tender leaves to the point where half my pea plants are actually no more than little stubby stalks poking out of the ground, and still I water them faithfully hoping for regeneration.

This morning when I did my inspection and found that the pea flower one of my more sickly pea plants had managed to put out in the last few days had served as some hoodlum pigeon's breakfast, it was the last straw.

Since the peas are from organic seeds and have been so far grown in an organic way, I didn't want to use anything chemical. I had read that stringing up CDs and dangling them amongst your plants deters birds because they get freaked out by the light reflection. I raided the DVD cupboard and found some freebie porn CDs which I had kept for Just in Case. Some of the tackier newspaper in Greece give away free soft porn CDs. I don't know why I held on to these, maybe I was planning on making some very sexy coasters. Anyway they were there and would finally be put to good use.

I decided to go one up on just dangling the CDs as they were, and also Mr Zeus grandma uses the garden too and I don't think she's be too impressed with a slow, rotating peep show. I had heard in the past that birds also don't like bullseyes so I printed off some bullseye icons and taped them to the CDs. They are now strung up and I'll let you know if I have any success with the method.

As for the whiteflies, these little guys look so innocent but between them and the pigeons, they are totally wiping out my plants. I read on You Grow Girl that you can either buy yellow fly paper or make your own by coating a piece of yellow plastic with oil. Whiteflies like yellow and will get stuck to the oil.

I cut up a yellow plastic bag yesterday and covered a square with oil. And do you know what? It actually works! This morning there are lots of whiteflies trapped in the oil.

To those of you not the least bit interested in gardens, I apologise. It's just that I love my plants so very much! They are the perfect outlet for my mothering instincts.

UPDATE: The porno CDs didn't work at all, which just goes to show that no good can come of free soft porn. Instead my peas look ready to get married as I've drapped them all in white net. Seems to work.

Image: Bollybutton's skillful photoshopping from:http://identify.whatbird.com/img/4/539/image.aspx, http://images.jupiterimages.com/common/detail/54/66/23236654.jpg and http://imagecache2.allposters.com/images/pic/153/930~Jenna-Jameson-Posters.jpg