Nutters I have known #3: The Greek 'researcher'

Soula was very keen on her research. She was researching her own island (aren't we all) during Ottoman times, but nobody knew exactly what. You see, Soula thought that what she was doing was so important and significant , importantly significant and significantly important that somebody might steal it from her. Therefore, she never told anyone apart from her PhD supervisor what her research was about. Which was a bit extreme.

You see, unless you're researching the cure for cancer or a revolutionary PC software/hardware which will change the face of the planet, nobody cares. Especially if you're researching a small Greek island (not Cyprus btw). Anyway. Soula was so obsessed with secrecy, that when we had student conferences where we presented our work, she wrote a paper on something irrelevant in order to avoid revealing her real topic. On top of that, she confused research with collecting material. She'd go to archives and photocopy everything, accumulating piles and piles of photocopies of documents whose only value was that they could one day prove useful. They didn't. Her supervisor told her to stop it and concentrate on finishing her thesis.

When she finished her thesis, passed her viva and submitted it, she made it inaccessible to anyone for 7 years. Because although there was a date on it and it was printed and bound, someone might still try to steal the supreme knowledge included in her thesis. As a result, by the time her thesis was available to readers, nobody was interested any more. She went back home, found a job in local government and that was that. The world could not benefit from her cutting-edge work. Shame ;-)

The Nutters Series

Nutters I have known #2: the pseudo-intellectual

[I had forgotten about this series, until Claude reminded me-thanks!]


Makis was an intellectual. One of those you know the moment you lay eyes on them. Short, dark, with John Lennon glasses, always clutching a book. I met him when I was an undergrad, and he drifted in and out of my life and those of others (I am sure Antonis will have something to say).

This guy had his head in the clouds. He always liked to maintain a certain high ground, intellectual, deeply thoughtful and always supposedly mildly surprised and amused by life's little real moments. I suspect that he thought that the intellectual ticket would get him laid. He did his best to impress the ladies, always quoting this poet and that, speaking with flowers and doves in a manner so detached you could be forgiven for thinking the man was ethereal. I guess that the way he wolfed down his bowl of pasta or his chicken (which you'd cooked for him) was the only thing that allowed a tiny little beam of doubt to cast some light on the mystery...

You see, Makis liked to pretend he was an intellectual. His knowledge of poetry, philosophy, history, literature and literary criticism, sociology, politics and all things contained in the space between book covers proved to be superficial, time and time again. When probed, it turned out that he had a good encyclopaedic knowledge on which academic published with which publishers, when and where. But not what. If you asked him carefully, it turned out that he hadn't actually read any of the things he knew about. A bit like knowing about Mount Everest-you know it's there, but the air of authenticity disappears once people realize that you have never set foot on Asia.

He was perfectly happy to eat like a true Cypriot if someone else had done the cooking. If not, he pretended to lead this intellectual life, where food interfered with reading time-so he bought himself bags of lettuce and carrots, claiming that these stimulated his mind etc. And he could talk. If talking was a sport, Makis would have been World Heavyweight Champion of Talking. Talking Crap. The best retort to him came from a very old academic one day in the foyer of our faculty. We were sitting at a bench and Makis was clutching a literary criticism book, to which the man said: "you should stop reading that and start reading literature". Spot on.

And then there was his attitude to women ("he treats objects like women man"). You'd be standing there, having a casual chat with him, and all of a sudden he'd stop, turn his whole body and stare, following in this manner the movements of this pretty girl who'd happened to pass by. No sign of being discreet-just staring like a man who'd been in prison for 40 years, to the point it was embarrassing to be with him in public. Staring doesn't begin to describe it, I guess he was like a dog who'd just seen a 6ft tall bone walk right past him, drooling and all. Embarrassing.

The last I'd seen of him was when I was moving out of my house. We let him stay with us for a few weeks because he had no place to stay (mug? moi?). As we were waiting for a taxi to come and pick us up, he appeared, book and lettuce in hand. "Makis, give us a hand mate, will you?" And then came the immortal response: "Mate, I'm sorry but I'm an intellectual. I don't do lifting". And that was that.

He's of course nowhere near as colourful as our Basque friend. You'd have to meet him to appreciate his full madness. I hope you don't-you'll be stuck there all day, and life's just too short.

Chaff

Mastre Hambís put out his cigarette with his boot. 'Come on boys, not much left'. The soldiers lazily got up from the comfort of the giant carob tree's shade and prepared themselves for another couple of hours of work. Mastre Hambís owned the farm right next to their outpost, and they were helping him collect all the hay bales and stack them up in storage for the winter ahead. The July sun was scorching the red earth as they reluctantly came out of the shade.

Panikkos had a soft spot for Mastre Hambís, as he reminded him of his father who was also a farmer. Mastre Hambís only had one daughter, who had married and moved to Australia, so he had nobody to help him with the farm. An old man of an age impossible to accurately guess, he had the vivacity and spring of a mountain goat. He'd often turn up at the outpost with a tray full of kléftiko and a crate of beers for the boys. It was almost as if he had de facto adopted the soldiers at the outpost. He'd seen them come and go, fresh out of training and into the boredom and solitude of the ceasefire lines, hardened, disillusioned and hopeful out into real life. On his farm he grew potatoes, barley, kept sheep and goats and had the obligatory fruit garden, so common a pattern in the region. Whatever the season, there was something to harvest, something he needed help with, but also something he could offer the boys. Oranges, mandarins, potatoes, peaches, apricots, plums, water melons. They sometimes pinched some fresh milk from the jars he put out for the dairy collection. His contribution came to substitute the dreadful slops the regiment's kitchen insisted on calling food, a pile of something or other which arrived at the outpost in a tin container at the back of a truck, covered in the red Mesaoria dust. The contents of the tin pot inevitably became food for the six or seven dogs and puppies the soldiers kept at the outpost.

They hopped on the cart drawn by Mastre Hambís' tractor and he led them to a field about a mile from the main farm. The hay bales, cubic beasts peacefully sunning themselves, were waiting to be collected. Mastre Hambís parked the tractor in the middle of the field, and the boys started stacking them onto the cart, hauling them from the two plastic strings they were tied with, their heavy boots clumsily stumbling in the caked earth. It was hard work, the sweat was pouring down their bare backs, bits of chaff and dirt covered their bodies and faces, making them look like those images of the peasants of a bygone time. Their youthful bodies were so tanned they had the appearance of leather, their eyes burning bright from under the dirt.

"Aman kopelia*! We're fucked!", exclaimed Andrikkos. They all turned and looked at the cloud of dust following the fast-approaching regimental Mercedes jeep. There was no point trying to either hide or pretend they were on a patrol. Their weapons and kit were left behind at the outpost-they were there to carry hay bales. They just stood there, waiting for their approaching fate. The sight of the Mercedes usually meant the regiment commander or, even worse, the battalion commander, a development which would surely land them in court-martial.

The jeep pulled up and out came Lieutenant Hristofís with a folder in his hands. Their despair started evaporating, because the only person who could possibly let them off lightly was him. Hristofís was a mild-mannered chap who was clearly in the wrong profession as he couldn't harm a fly. His dream was to be a primary school teacher, but he got his exam preferences mixed up and ended up in military school instead. He was always bossed about not only by his superiors and his peers, but also by the odd conscript who overstepped the mark and gave him a hard time. The only time he punished a conscript, because the presence of the commander gave him no choice, he offered a tearful apology afterwards.

"Hey guys, what's up?", he asked as he approached the boys with his folder under his arm. "I went to the outpost and the lads there sent me here. Did you all become farmers now?". "Erm, Mastre Hambís here needed a hand sir, so we did it out of boredom. I hope you don't mind" said Kostís, the sergeant and technically the person responsible for the squad. "That's fine, I didn't see anything", replied Hristofís "as long as the commander doesn't get wind of this, he'll have your balls on a plate". Swearing just didn't agree with Hristofís, and the word 'balls' just sounded odd coming from his lips, even in an environment such as the army where swearing was common speak.

"They are very nice lads Mr. Hristofís, they were giving me a hand, I hope you don't mind", added Mastre Hambís. "No, that's fine, just don't say I said so" smiled Hristofís. "Anyway lads, I'm here for your payment". The statement was immediately followed by loud cheers which echoed in the almost desert-like landscape. The conscripts only received about £20 per month, barely enough for cigarettes, but pay day was always a good time nonetheless. "Thank you re Hristofí!*" they said, patting him on the shoulder, as if he was a mate who'd come back with cans of lager. After they'd all signed the form and pocketed their money, Hristofís jumped in the jeep and he was on his way to the next outpost.

They returned to their job with renewed vigour and in a good mood, quickly throwing the bales onto the cart. Mastre Hambís smiled from under his moustache. The sun was beginning to dip to the west, and the sea breeze was finally starting to blow.

______________________________________

*Aman kopelia = god help us lads

* re = you, hey you, mate

Part of the Army Tales series

With thanks to KnifeJuggler for the photo

The dining table of life

As someone who lives abroad, I always dread phone calls from Cyprus announcing losses of loved ones. It's the fate of the voluntarily (or involuntarily) displaced. They always tell you that [insert name of loved one here] is in hospital and it doesn't look too good. Half the times your loved one is already dead and they're just trying to soften the blow. It doesn't work of course, it just makes it easier on the unlucky messenger to deliver the dire news.

Just over two years ago, I lost my grandmother. She'd fallen and broken her hip bone, they operated on her and apparently it went well. 'Yiayia' was always afraid of anything remotely related to death however (she'd stopped going to funerals decades earlier), so when she was in the clinic she decided that it was probably her time to be on her way. They said that she kept saying thing like "I'll be seeing my Kostis soon" (her dead husband). I suspect that her death was partly due to her frail condition (she was 96) and partly a conscious decision-she'd simply had enough.

In her final years her eyesight had started to fail her, and she gradually lost her hearing. I loved her very much though, and she always recognised me and asked me whether I'd found a wife yet (Firfiri you are not alone). She only knew how to read a little bit, hadn't gone to school, worked the fields and raised children all her life. She always sat on an old-style chair outside her door, looking at the gate. Every time I passed from there, on a bicycle (childhood), moped (teens) and more recently in a car, I'd turn my head and see the figure clad in black sitting there, enjoying the breeze. It was reassuring somehow, as if my own roots were still secure, firmly in the ground.

When my brother rang and told me the bad news, I kept my composure up until I hung up. I then cried bitterly, like I'd never cried before. By the time I heard the news they'd already gone ahead with the funeral and it was all over. I never told them this, but I was upset that they didn't at least allow me a day to get there for the funeral. I don't know, somehow I wanted to be there and go through the grieving process with the family, and especially my dad who lost his mum.

When I go to Cyprus, we always gather for family feasts. I think it was last year, or perhaps the one before, when I noticed that my brother's children are now sitting where my brothers and I used to sit when we were children, at the edge of the table. Where my parents/uncles and aunts used to sit is where our generations sits now. My parents sit where my grandmother used to sit, as if the conveyor belt of life is slowly but surely moving us from one end of the dining table to the other. The dining table itself is life. I must say that the hairs on the back of my neck stand upright every time I think of the concept. Life is a dining table, and as we grow older, we shuffle down to make space for the next generation. Figure that one out.

Every time I pass outside yiayia's house, I always look, as if I am still expecting her figure to be sitting there.

[Apologies it's a bit of a sad one-I promise you a nice recipe to make up for it]

Image by John Thomson

Nutters I have known #1: the Basque

According to Will Self, 70% of the world's nutters are in University in some shape or form. In a way it makes sense. Universities are inhabited by people who spend lifetimes focusing on something so small and intricate, that they often lose any sense of reality. Communication with the environment becomes a burden rather than necessity. Wearing white socks with sandals all of a sudden sounds like a good idea. But that's not to say these people are bona fide nutters. They are simply eccentric. But the most eccentric of these most definitely strayed into nutter territory. This series of blog posts is dedicated to these weird and wonderful (when they are not your flatmates) people.

Being a student and then working at Universities since 1993, you understand that I have had way more than my fair share of nutters. Maybe I am one of them myself. Memory is a tricky thing, it makes you think of them in better colours than you really should. You need to really rake your brains to re-discover the fury you felt at the time, so that you depict them fairly and accurately.

#1: the Basque scientist

The one who by far takes the biscuit, the top prize, was a flatmate of ours called 'Juana'. The Mrs-Blackbeard-to-be and myself lived in this extremely cold and damp flat at the top floor of a lovely Victorian house. The house being lovely made up for the rotting windows and the extreme cold. Or so she says.

Juana was a Basque student in Engineering, doing research on something I never quite understood. She went on to get a research post, working in the lab. In any case, she was one of the most driven uni-nutters I have ever known. She had an Italian boyfriend who visited weekends and was a half-nutter himself, but we'll deal with him later.

Here are some of Juana's traits:

• She was so extremely stingy that she often ate food way past its sell-by date. On one occasion she got poisoning from expired prawns
• In order to save money, she took a bus day ticket, went into town, loaded herself with groceries from the open market, came home, dumped the bags, got on the bus again, went to the big supermarket and returned with another load of groceries
• the above visits happened on Fridays, because that's when said supermarket had loads of 'reduced' items-hence the expired stuff
• she bought food for 8 people from the market (5 pineapples for a pound, 3 melons for 50p, that kind of thing). As it was impossible for any human being to consume so much food in a week, most of it lay rotten in the fridge or in the fruit basket
• she refused to pay with a card at the supermarket, because "the black man at the checkout may memorise my card number". Her words, not mine.
• She was paid for a 9-5 job at the lab, but she woke up at 6, went for a swim, started work at 7 and came home at 7. 12 hours. She also went weekends. She slept at 8.
• So that she wouldn't spend money, she made a pot of coffee in the morning, put it in a plastic container, and re-heated it in the microwave at work
• She would have a tub of double cream on its own as dessert. (I suspect she thought it was some kind of yoghurt)
• When the boyfriend came for the weekend, after dinner she'd order him to their room for a 15-minute sex session after dinner. She then slept and he sat with us to watch TV. He liked Van Damme films. We didn't.
• On Sunday mornings she woke up, filled up a huge pot full of dry chick-peas and water, put it on the fire and then went back to bed. The chickpeas needed a good 2 hours of boiling. She did this so the boyfriend could take some boiled chick peas back with him. He also carried his dirty clothes with him on the train so she'd wash them for him.
• Although she lived with us for more than 2 years, she never got used to the idea of having a cat in the house. He constantly startled her, and she reacted like this.
• She ate so much pre-prepared food that she often blocked the toilet with her stools. She then spent hours locked up in the loo, hopelessly trying to unblock the toilet with bleach and huffing at it. She never used the toilet brush. When I told her that she could, she was offended.
• She often tried to burn us down by forgetting the stove on.
• A colleague of hers broke up with her boyfriend. Juana thought that she was a slut because she'd had an ex-boyfriend-in her mind, you're only supposed to have the one, marry him and have his babies.

I was very happy when she eventually moved out.

The dream of the spherical goddess

Ever since I hurt my ankle and gave up football, 18 months ago, I have been wanting nothing more than to kick a ball. It's as if my heart defies what the body knows: I've hurt both ankles twice. Last time it took me over a month to walk, and I can still feel that my ankle is weak, probably permanently. But I sometimes go to bed and the moment I close my eyes I make that killer pass from right-back all the way to the winger. It can't be helped. I've been playing the game ever since I can remember. Some of my first memories are of the World Cup of 1978, with that fantastic poster. I remember my dad going to the coffee house to watch games with the other men in Ayia Phyla, that's about it.

I even vaguely remember Aston Villa's 1982 European Cup win. But my first, big football memories were from the 1982 World Cup in Spain. The images flood back: naranjito, the mascot, the brilliance of Brazil with Socrates, Zico and Falcao. Everyone around me loved Brazil and wanted them to win it. But I somehow rooted for Italy. Our local grocer's was giving away world cup posters of teams, and I landed one of Italy, clad in their away white strip. It's funny, but that simple coincidence in the course of my childhood, one of many, has determined my support for a national team which never plays attractive football. And then there was Marco Tardelli. In the final against Germany he scored, and produced the most passionate celebration of all time: he turned and ran towards his team's bench, screaming 'goal' and crying tears of joy. That image has remained etched in my memory, the explanation to why football inexplicably becomes the passion for millions of people. That was it. I've been supporting Italy since.

As a player I was never great. When I was in school there were no real positions-everybody followed the ball, wherever that was, to form a huge scramble of feet, elbows and heads in search of the goddess. We used to play in a dusty field next to my mother's house, clouds of dust rising. I remember taking a bath afterwards, and the water turned red in the tub, the colour of the soil, blood from my knees. We'd have matches with teams from other neighbourhoods, with all the hostility seen in a Barcelona-Real Madrid classic.

A stint in the youth team of my village didn't really last all that long. I guess, as Roberto from Byzantium said to me once, "the mind is quicker than the body". He of course meant that we were getting old. I think it also means that some people can produce on the pitch something resembling the brilliance we saw on the screen. I couldn't. I was useful I guess. I could kick the ball, and as I grew older, I developed a good sense of positioning and passing, to compensate for my complete lack of pace and mobility. I also gradually developed the ability to pass and shoot with both feet, so I could play anywhere on the pitch. Except goal.

In the meantime I began to worship the divine ponytail, Roberto Baggio. He represented all I loved about football. Talent, commitment, work ethic, but most of all he was a sound character in a sport where these were rapidly disappearing. I started playing for the uni team as an undergrad, and then when I came to the UK I bumped into the Byzantine Roberto, another one who 'excelled' on the pitch after the age of 30. By then I'd moved to defence, using my 'wisdom' as a counter to the lack of physical condition. I began to play hard, but also developed my passing based on the Italian defenders who never ever hoofed the ball, but rather patiently brought it out and started counter-attacks. I hated giving the ball away more than anything. Roberto, like his Buddhist namesake, played in attack. His 'genio Italiano' as Captain Steve called it, served him well, and he went on to score goal after goal for our struggling team. Bizzarely I never scored, not even when we (rarely) came up against teams considerably weaker than ours whom we thumped. And then, when I went to Italy for Roberto's wedding, I bagged the perfect hat-trick in a match among his friends the night before his big day. I bagged one with the right foot, a screamer with my left, and a header in the first half. And that was the last time I scored.

And now I just watch. I thought of taking up coaching. Archery. Something. But nothing is like it. No matter how many hours I play the guitar, the buzz is never the same.

Clubs and national teams I love and have loved

Anagennisi Deryneias (home club)

Omonoia Nicosia

Nea Salamis Famagusta

Italy 1982

Argentina 1986

Soviet Union, World Cup 1986 and European Cup 1988

Yugoslavia 1990

The miracle of Denmark, 1992

Romania 1994

The wonderful Czechs, 1996

Mexico 1998

Players/icons

Marco Tardelli

Diego Maradona

Georghe Hagi

Hristo Stoickov

Roberto Baggio

I am sure Roberto will remind me the ones I forgot...

Dedicated to Eduardo Galeano, whose writings on the goddess are the best tribute to the passion.

Mud and pomegranates II

(continued from I)

When the sun was well on its way, and nature around them was wide awake, they slowly got up and headed back inside the orchard. They made their way through the fruit trees to the edge of the orchard and started walking back, clapping their hands and throwing the odd pebble here and there, trying to drive the birds out of the orchard and towards the grove where they'd set their sticks. At the same time, they kept an eye open for anything they could shoot with their slings. Angelís spotted a blackcap on an olive tree branch. He aimed his sling and shot at it but missed. He spat another mouthful of lead shot into the pouch of his sling and carried on with scaring the birds.

When they came to the end of the orchard, they again sat against the carob tree and opened their bags. "I hope you brought some of your mum's halloumi" Paráskos". "Of course, never without some". Angelís brought out a bag with olives, some cucumbers and tomatoes and some fresh bread which his grandmother had baked the day before, all carefully wrapped in a cloth. They laid it all on a rock, and had breakfast lying against the carob trunk and looking at the aerial activity. A kourkoutás was watching them curiously from a hole in the carob trunk. They spotted a flock of starlings in the sky, flying south. They'd love to catch a couple of them, they were beautiful and their song was glorious. But they had other things to catch.

They finished their breakfast, wrapped up their things and started walking carefully towards the olive grove. They could see some birds were already caught, but treaded slowly so as not to scare away any more that could still be around. Paráskos spotted a thrush caught on one of his sticks, and quickly climbed the tree to collect it before it managed to break off. They climbed all their trees and quickly collected their harvest: blackcaps, robins, chiffchaffs, finches. Angelís put all the seed-eating birds in his cage: a couple of goldfinches, a chaffinch and a couple of greenfinches. Birds which ate seeds were kept as pets, and some, such as goldfinches, were particularly loved. They killed the other birds-those would end up on the dinner table as a delicacy.

They went back to their carob tree to rest, leaving the cage with the captured birds in the grove to attract more with their chirping. They sat around for a while, but they soon got bored waiting. Paráskos picked up an empty, rusty can and put it on the ground against the carob tree. Angelís didn't take long to figure out what he was trying to do. They both stood a few meters away from the can and started aiming for it, using pebbles instead of shot. After two or three attempts, Angelís hit the can, the pebble bouncing off it, leaving a hollow metallic sound. They stood it up and started all over again, everything was a competition.

After a while, it was time to check on their trees again. They started walking towards the grove, but their cautious approach was interrupted by Paráskos' loud shouting: "run! There's a blackbird!" Angelís dropped all he was carrying and started running as fast as he could, stumbling and falling in the freshly-ploughed field. He quickly climbed the olive tree and made it to the branch where the blackbird was caught. He grabbed it carefully with his right hand, holding the lime stick with the left as he carefully released the bird without damaging its feathers. He held it as if it was the most fragile piece of porcelan ever. He could feel the bird's tiny heart beating fast. He slowly climbed down, holding the bird with great care. They loved blackbirds and valued them greatly. It was rare they ever caught one, but when they did it filled them with pride.

He put the bird gently in the cage. It was time to gather their sticks and go home as the birds in the cage needed to be cared for. So they started again, in reverse to what they'd done before dawn. They gathered their lime sticks, rolling them together into bunches and placing them in the koukkourká. As Paráskos was on his second tree, he heard a heavy flapping near him. He looked up and spotted a falcon making for the grove at great speed. Angelís had seen it too. They both started shouting to scare it off, but to no avail. The falcon swooped and landed on a lime stick on one of the trees where a chiffchaff had been caught. It grabbed the small bird, and flew off taking the lime stick with it.

They gathered all their things, except for Paráskos' lost stick, and prepared to walk back home. It was just after noon and they were getting quite hungry. Paráskos mused: "I guess Mr Falcon deserved his harvest as much as we did." "Yes, no grudges", replied Angelís. He had as much right to the sky's harvest, if not more. Walking out of the grove and through the fruit orchard, the boys stopped and picked themselves some pomegranates. They sat under their carob tree once more, cutting the pomegranates open and feasting on their juicy insides. They tasted better than anything in the world.


They'd caught about a dozen each

Mud and pomegranates

It wasn't even half past three when Angelís woke up. He'd set up the alarm clock for four but his excitement couldn't wait. Sundays were the best, there was no school and he could do whatever he liked with his time-usually hunting or playing football. He got up, pulled on his dad's old military fatigues, an old woollen jumper with holes, thick socks. He had a quick glass of milk, looking out of the window. It was still pitch-dark. He put on his coat and wellies, grabbed his bag, turned the key in the door and found himself outside in the crispy cold.

He headed for the shed and soon emerged with his koukkourká* and a small cage. He threw the koukkourká over his shoulder and walked to the far end of the neighbourhood where he was to meet up with Paráskos. Paráskos was not there yet-he was probably running on time rather than jump out of bed early like him. He looked around. The neighbourhood was still, motionless, like a freight ship waiting in the distance at night before docking in the morning. Most lights were off, apart from one or two, where the unlucky ones had to get up very early to go to work. He took it all in: the crisp October chill, the last of the starry night, the sweet scent of jasmine. He loved that time of year, when summer still held on but the winter had started to move in, like a tenant eager to occupy the premises for a few months.

Paráskos' voice made him jump. He'd been lost in his thoughts when his friend called him as he approached. "What are you doing there Angelís? Dreaming again? We'll never catch anything like this". "I've been waiting ages!", protested Angelís, in an attempt to snap out of his thoughts and into reality. Paráskos was also carrying his own koukkourká, all ready and in good spirits. They left the road towards a path which led to the fields. The darkness swallowed them but they knew very well where they were headed; this was a path they'd taken many times before and knew with eyes closed. They went on teasing each other for a while but their games gradually faded into the darkness, leaving them in their own, individual and shared contemplation. It was a beautiful morning, the air was sweet and mild and they were happy to be there.

They slowly walked through the muddy paths to the edge of the village where they usually did their hunting. They usually set their lime sticks in specific trees and even specific branches in an old olive grove. The grove was one of those which weren't producing many olives any more. The trees were ancient, their trunks hollowed out, the size of small rooms. These occasionally doubled as hideouts or tree-houses during various phases of afternoons full of games. The grove belonged to old man Kongolís who hadn't even bothered fencing it as he didn't mind the children playing in it. He sometimes tied his mule on one of the trees and Angelís and his friends had endless fun with it.

There was neither mule nor Kongolís that morning. The boys moved as swiftly as the red soil mud would allow them to. They picked their trees carefully in advance and they had each taken his share of the spots in the grove. Angelís pulled out a bunch of his lime sticks and placed it on a branch on the first of 'his' trees. He climbed it with some difficulty, as his muddy wellies slipped against the ancient trunk. When he was up and secure, he picked up the bunch of lime sticks, all glued together, and with great skill he picked one out, held the tip with his mouth and cut it out of the bunch with his knife moving outwards and away from his body. He placed it across an opening in the branches, ready for the birds to rest on. He placed them all, one by one, with great care and attention. When he finished the first tree, he moved on to the next one, and then the next one, until he had placed all six of his lime stick bunches. He put his fingers to his lips and threw a swift whistle in the direction of Paráskos, who whistled back in acknowledgement. Paráskos was slower and was still setting up on the fourth tree. Angelís gave him a helping hand, and together they emptied Paráskos' koukkourká in no time.

They picked up all their things and started walking fast away from the grove towards an orchard a few hundred meters away. They had to be done and away from the grove before the break of dawn, and they could already see the rosy horizon in the east breaking into two. They sat down and rested their backs against the trunk of a carob tree. All they could do was sit and wait, so they leaned and waited, dozing off but waking up from the cold. The first birds started singing as the dawn chorus started rehearsing the day's performance.

(to be continued)

*custom-made reed basket for lime sticks

Armed solitude

Panikkos carefully put out his cigarette by stepping on it with the heel of his boot. He picked up the cigarette butt and put it in his magazine pouch. There was no point flicking it away, as Captain Kitsis would only make them collect cigarette butts as a punishment. He was in full gear, standing watch in the outpost's detached watchtower, which was about 1/2 a mile from the main buildings. Ever since the order came from HQ to be on alert, everyone was doing double shifts. His turn had come to keep watch at the dreaded detached post. Dreaded because it was in the middle of nowhere, so far from any visual stimulation that could keep him from being bored. At the same time it was well within the visual range of the Captain, so taking a nap was out of the question.

Since the alert orders came in, the company had set up a .50 caliber machine gun as defence to potential air attack. Panikkos knew that there was as much chance of the attack happening as there was of that old piece of junk being of any use. He had no ammo for the .50 cal, and the ammo for his G3 rifle came with the guard post. It was securely sealed in a magazine holder made of leather, heavily stitched so that the soldiers wouldn't steal bullets. He was not allowed to open fire without permission from the officer on duty. But the guard post phone didn't work. He knew that his best chance was to make a run for it if the worst was to happen. But it wouldn't. This was just an exercise in exercising power. HQ made up a stupid order, Panikkos and his mates had to stand by the .50 cal for hours. Somebody somewhere was having a laugh.

His watch started at 6 in the morning and was to end at noon. It was only 8.30 and he was already bored out of his mind. He tried to divide his time into smokes, pacing himself so he wouldn't run out of cigarettes before the end of his watch. He had a whole pack of Craven A's he'd bought the evening before. He smoked Craven A's because they were so heavy nobody wanted to pinch one off him, they kept away. He'd planned to smoke 3 cigarettes per hour, roughly one every 20 minutes, that would bring him to the end of his watch fine. But it was only 8.30 and he'd already smoked half the pack.

His little radio, hidden in the other magazine pouch, was playing music, frequently interrupted by the musings of the DJ. He liked that one , she had a warm, fuzzy voice, which made him think of nice, comforting things. Her name was Joanna , and he imagined her to be beautiful, with long blond hair and blue eyes. Her voice gave him some comfort in the long hours.

By 10.00 he was really bored. Thankfully the patrol dropped by, sneaking him a halloumi sandwich and the football newspaper, Kosmos ton Spor. He ate the sandwich very slowly, savouring every bite, making it last as long as possible. The newspaper headlines were just commenting on the results from the day before. His team, Nea Salamis, was thrashed 4-0 and was lingering at the bottom of the table. Pushing the newspaper aside, his thoughts drifted to the coming evening. He was due for a pass, his first one in six weeks, and couldn't wait to see Andri, his girlfriend. He'd have a nice, home-cooked meal, his clothes washed, go out for a drink and get back the following morning with his batteries charged.

It didn't help the time pass. If anything, it made him more impatient. He stood his rifle (bayonet fixed during the alert) against the wall, took his helmet off and started kicking the pebbles around the guard post. He picked up a handful and started tossing them, one by one, trying to hit one of the many crows that flew around. He quickly went to the dirty toilet at the base of the guard post for a piss and came back up, in case Captain Kitsis was looking at him through his binoculars. He was really strict, one of those officers with a real chip on their shoulders, always giving the boys a hard time. Panikkos thought Kitsis was in some kind of ego-trip, fancying himself as one of those hard American officers from the movies, perhaps just like the sergeant from Full Metal Jacket. They were not all like that. Captain Ektoros, for example, sometimes came to the outpost with a bottle of brandy and some food and sat with the lads around a game of poker. He was all right, one who understood the futility of it all and had decided to have as little aggravation as possible.

By 11 o'clock his spirits were good. He had two cigarettes left but was less than an hour away from being replaced. He hoped that his replacement wouldn't be late. As the phone was broken he had no way of contacting the rest. The patrol was not due again until about 1. He tried to keep himself busy by thinking ahead, what he'd do in the evening, if his mate Yorkos would be around, if his mum would cook his favourite food, keftedes.

"8.28: Turkish Land Rover sighted". He updated the log, even though there was no land rover. He didn't want the Captain to think he wasn't watchful. "9.44: Turkish patrol". "10.36: Turkish guard replacement". He made sure the things he 'observed' were simple routine, nothing that would cause an investigation or further paperwork, such as reported gunfire. The logbook was full of such observations, as each guard ensured that they left no room for anyone to doubt whether they were watchful, or even awake.

By 11.45 he was really happy. He was sure the replacement would come soon. He was getting hungry and was ready for a quick nap before he scrubbed up and got his pass in the afternoon. He had a hitch hike journey home ahead of him, but he didn't mind. He usually met interesting people while hitch hiking, and drivers always stopped for a soldier.

12.01. There was no sign yet of the replacement, but Panikkos was sure it was on its way; being 5 minutes late was not uncommon. Perhaps whoever it was took the path through the orchards to gather some plums and peaches on his way. He hoped that his replacement wasn't that new guy from England. He was only serving six months and was really lax about such things. Everybody hated the 'Charlie', because they were envious, but also because he was culturally alien to them. And he was usually late for his guard duties.

By 12.15 he'd started getting a bit anxious. "Where the fuck is the damn replacement?" he thought, now kicking pebbles around in fury. He was not pleased, that Charlie, or whoever, was eating into his rest time. Another half an hour passed, it was a quarter to one. He started contemplating walking down to the outpost but was sure the Captain would see him and so he stayed. He tried not to think of it, something must have happened-his replacement would be there soon, definitely. By 1.30 he was out of his mind. He hadn't smoked in over an hour, out of cigarettes, out of patience, hungry and furious. He thought that if he took the orchard path he wouldn't be seen walking back for most of the way, and if the Captain happened to check the guard post through his binoculars, he could always claim he was in the toilet with the runs.

He took the ammo, his rifle and everything else and started walking cautiously back. It was almost 2 o'clock and he'd been guard since 8. Inside him the possibilities were projected, like a black and white film against the screen of his mind. If he was lucky nobody would see him and he'd get the replacement to quickly run back to the post. But if the Captain saw him he was as good as dead and buried. He'd definitely get a 20-day punishment, no leave or pass, plus he'd have to serve it at the end of his national service as an extension. In the worst case he could even be court-martialled for deserting his post and abandoning his duties. This was no joke, he could end up in jail, probably serving another six months at the end of his service. But he had to rest, eat, get ready for his pass. The whole thing tormented him. He couldn't face the wrath of the Captain, it could crush him. He thought of going straight home, at least he'd get a night's enjoyment before he was severely punished. Perhaps it was a gamble worth taking.

He approached the outpost very cautiously, as if on a stealth mission against the enemy. The Captain was the enemy. He saw the Captain's car parked outside and his heart sank. He knew he was in trouble. No pass, nothing for weeks. He approached the gate and saw there was no guard. Panikkos entered the compound, making for the entrance. Entering the main building, he saw Kyriakos, in full gear, sitting on a chair and keeping one eye on the road and one eye on the TV. He was on guard duty at the gate but knew there was no danger. Panikkos was relieved. He saw his mates sitting around the table playing cards. They told him that the Captain's car broke down and he went to HQ in a service jeep. He asked Andreas, the sergeant, who was supposed to replace him. They all turned and looked at him first, and then looked at Yiannis who was sleeping in his bed. He'd returned drunk just that morning from his pass and had struggled to keep his eyes open. As soon as the Captain left, he collapsed. Panikkos went outside, came back in and emptied a bucket of water in Yiannis' bed. "Get up you bastard" he shouted, as he landed a kick in his ribs. Yiannis jumped amidst the roar of laughter from the rest. He sheepishly picked up the ammo and his gear and started to make his way to the outpost. Panikkos took his boots off, grabbed a piece of bread with cheese and sat in a chair to watch some TV. His mind was already hitch hiking home.

________________________________
Part of the Army Tales series
Inspired by AH's story.

Life is a journey, I am a traveller

image from here

A few days ago I scanned and posted some old photos on Facebook for the delectation of friends, old and recent. The outcome was a thoroughly moving response by about 10 fellow students from a time long ago, which reminded of the friendships, likes, dislikes and, inevitably, loves, of my undergraduate days. One of these friends, Eleni, is also a blogger, and has expressed these same emotions very beautifully on her own blog.

It's not monumental for others. This life journey is something we all go through, en route to the bitter end (as Placebo says). And all of us go through the coming-of-age ritual one way or another. Mine was during national service, but mostly during my time as an undergraduate. The optimism, naivete, hope, passion. Children disguised as adults. Children becoming adults. The world was there for the taking, and I certainly wanted, and still do, a huge chunk of it.

Perhaps our choices landed us on different shores, apart from what was at the time our universe. Apart from people we loved, the warm embrace, the soft kiss, the swift kick in the shins during a game of football in the Venetian town walls' now dried moat. Our friends (and foes) all took their own path, followed their own journey, made their own choices, regretted their own mistakes perhaps. And it's rather sweet to rediscover them and briefly reminisce, but also find that we have changed, as Eleni points out, but what made us friends is still there at the core sometimes. Peace and love, peace and love.

I know it's a bit sentimental, I promise you a slasher horror story next time.

Voyagers Triumphant

After the war my family lived in Ayia Phyla, just north of Limassol, until things back home on the east coast settled down. Or, to put it differently, people fled for fear of the Turkish army, and kind of settled where they found refuge, found jobs and homes and found it hard to return immediately. They were torn between a foreign place where there were jobs, a flourishing harbour and industries, and home where there was very little to sustain them. I was only a few months old when the war happened in that hot summer of '74. Grandad Kostis took Mum, my older brother Costas, myself (Petros was not to arrive for another 3 years), and my aunts and drove us all to Limassol where we had relatives and where things were safer. Dad was in the army, a reservist called to do his duty who thankfully managed to make it back safe and in one piece.

When he joined the rest of us, we rented a house owned by Mrs. Mariò. We lived there for a couple of years, which I can't really remember, before we moved to Ayia Phyla, to another rented house. That's where my first memories take me. It was a poor street, with old houses, next to some British-period water tanks, abandoned semi-circular structures with metal doors which provided perfect hideouts for our long, playful afternoons. My younger brother was born at this house, but soon we moved to another place, Mrs Loullou's house, north of the village. Mrs Loullou and her husband were shepherds up on the hill, and their daughter Petroulla was Mum's friend. She'd sometimes come with some lovely anari cheese, hot and fresh, which we devoured with bread and honey. The house was opposite Shiatis' bakery; I remember the smell of the fresh bread early in the morning until today, it will never leave me. Loullou's house was a poor one. Dad had found a job at the Co-op in Kapsalos, a Limassol suburb, and Mum stayed home to raise the three monsters. I suppose that this was all the family income could afford, a little, two-bedroom house with an outside toilet. No bathroom. The family took its baths in a tin tub in the kitchen. I remember being terrified of the dark, so any foray to the toilet at night was beyond consideration. We boys had to do our job in a little bucket which Mum emptied in the mornings (well, it magically vanished so I'm assuming she did). The house backed onto an olive grove, another extension of our playground. Dad soon filled the place with cages for his favourite pastime: keeping birds of all kinds and sizes. We had pigeons, quails, chickens, most of which went a long way towards subsistence. The garden had a couple of lemon trees, essential in a Cypriot home.

The large pigeon cage was right next to the outside toilet, and in front of both stood a tall loullouthkià tree, a tree which produces little white flowers which turn into round green balls (useful for throwing at each other) which then turn brown and soft and smell horrible. No use to the tree whatsoever, apart from the fact that thrushes like it. I used to climb the tree, hop onto the roof of the pigeon cage and then the roof of the toilet where Dad kept all sorts of junk. There was this strange contraption he'd made: It was a plank of wood with a long, rusty nail sticking out of it; it had a handle and Dad used it to make springs for his partridge traps. Mum, always cautious and looking ahead to the next mischief us little ones would get up to, warned me: "don't go on the toilet roof, you'll hurt yourself". Alas, when did listening to ones mum ever sound like the thing to do? Once, twice, three times and that nail found its way through my flimsy flip flop (it was summer) and through my foot. I cried from the pain and ran straight down the tree and towards the house screaming "I stepped on a nail! I stepped on a nail!". There were two things that had to be done. Firstly, Mum made sure she gave me a good hiding for disobeying her and impaling myself on the spring-machine. Secondly, we had to go to the hospital, so off we went, for the all-necessary (and painfully familiar) tetanus injections and all the rest of it.

Another time I hit my head on the corner of the corrugated iron sheets that formed the roof of one of the cages. Running was too exciting to stop and pay attention to hazards. Five stitches and that's my scar for life, I still have it to show for my troubles. Loullou's house was not far from the mountain. A few minutes walk north and you'd be in the heart of it. We loved to explore the mountains, play there and go hunting with Dad and his various contraptions. We used to go meet our friends Christakis and Yiangos, refugees from Bellapais, and play endless games of football or anything else. We also used to head down to the local shooting range, where the considerably large army garrison would do shooting practice. We liked to pick up rusty old bullet casings and bullets, lead deformed from contact with the targets. Costas found an old National Guard helmet, which we kept for years, as it made playing 'war' all that more convincing. It was initially green, but the paint was flaking so we painted it white. A family heirloom from a troubled time. It was an adventurous childhood to say the least.

My parents were very actively involved in the local community. Dad played football and especially volleyball which was (and still is) a must where we came from. They did theatre, politics, all the things that their generation had and believed in, and risked their necks to pursue, contrary to the fascist threat and the danger of ostracism in a time when bosses didn't want to employ 'commies' or active union members. I remember Dad taking us to watch the local football team, ENAF (Youth Union of Ayia Phyla) which played in the regional league. This was no glamorous affair-it was the time before grass pitches and fences, the crowd just stood by the touchline and watched, spurred on their team and intimidated and occasionally beat the poor referee (as fat Christakis notoriously did one Sunday-stuff of legend). The ground was near Tsireio, a 'proper' stadium where the big Limassol clubs played, AEL (the left wing-and therefore ours-team), Apollon and Aris. Politics mattered very much in those troubled times. We occasionally went there as well, although I don't think Dad enjoyed the company very much, as we were more interested in peanuts, soft drinks and going to the toilet than the games themselves.

One day, Dad came home in a car. Driving it. Our relative poverty never allowed such luxuries, so when he turned up in an old, 1960s Triumph Herald 1200 Estate, we were amazed. He bought it second hand, of course, but it was ours none the less. It looked so beautiful. It was white, with registration CC588, and it had red seats and a wooden dashboard which looked just gorgeous.

It had lovely round headlights, and the hood opened by opening two latches, one either side. It had this little badge on the wings with '12' on it, for 12 horse power.

In the next few years we spent a lot of time in good old Triumph, as the family travelled east to see parents and relatives in what was still really home. Those were the days before motorways and fast journeys, and it took the 1.2-litre Triumph a few hours to get us there. The dusty, country lanes of early 1980s Cyprus seemed endless, as hill after hill and orchard after orchard unfolded in front of our eyes. After some time Dad had a tape deck fitted in the Triumph, so we could listen to music. Mum and Dad had this horrible Barbra Streisand/Barry Gibb tape which they played endlessly (#I am a woman in love...#, my toes still curl with agony). Dad also taped songs from the radio, he had this black EMI tape with Pink Floyd's Another Brick on the Wall and The Police's Don't Stand so Close to Me. I remember enjoying the journey very much, much more than actually reaching our destination. After passing the largely arid and dusty hills near Limassol we started weaving through green hills and small villages, through lazy squares where men sat outside coffee houses, playing backgammon and looking at passers-by. At one of the rest stops there was a restaurant which had on its roof a huge beer can, advertising the local lager. When the motorway was finished, these businesses died, but the beer can stayed there, dying a rusty death in the Cypriot sun. I remember those times with nostalgia. The long trips and the games we devised to make time pass. Costas used to pull my leg by telling me that under the hills were hidden giants, ready to sprawl and eat the unsuspecting travellers. We'd stick our ears close to the car's inside wall to hear the engine, and it would make a strange sound. Costas used to say that it sounded like beans were cooking, boiling in the engine, and we laughed. When Petros was old enough to be naughty, the three of us just raised hell (or did we?) on the back seat.

We always thought that the road signs deliberately didn't tell the distance to our village because it was a communist village. Approaching Larnaca, which we recognised by the tall eucalyptus trees which lined the road, we felt that we were in almost familiar territory. On the other side of the city started the 'red villages', named after the colour of the rich-in-iron soil. Potato fields, colocassi fields, orange groves, orchards and windmills appeared as the landscape changed dramatically from the barren to the fruitful, the desperate to the hopeful. Home wasn't far. I somehow can't remember ever arriving, I cannot conjure the actual image of entering our village. I wonder if by the end of it all I fell asleep, always to be woken up by Nana's sweet kiss and the promise of lemonade and biscuits.

Staying at Nana's place was always fun. She loved us very much and was always mild-mannered and nice. Her house was at the back of aunt Pepa's house and the yard had all sorts of weird and beautiful things. An old moped of Grandad's became, with a little imagination, a wartime torpedo. Uncle George's plumbing stuff were all part of that battlefield of children. Being there also meant we caught up with all our cousins and got up to more mischief in the village streets. My cousin Dinos was only a toddler and Stalo, his sister, was my age and we got on like wild fire. The chance to play with them gave our games a different, almost continental, foreign dimension. We were sort of city kids, although we also lived in a village. We were the ones who were away and came for the weekend or for a few days in the summer, bringing with us all the funny habits we'd picked up elsewhere. Calling the goals 'kola' instead of 'terma' for example. And the beaches. The beaches in the east were to die for. Uncle Kokos would pick us up in his old Mitsubishi Colt and we'd whizz through dirt tracks lined with reeds, which cut through fields of wheat and water melons. The sea air would hit our noses and we knew we were close. We loved the sea, we spent so much time swimming and playing in the water I'm surprised we didn't develop gills.

And then the time to return came. We loaded the Triumph, said our goodbyes to Nana and the rest and off we went. Again through the same villages, occasionally stopping to see aunt Giorgoulla and our cousins in Xylophagou, where play temporarily resumed before we jumped in the car for the final part of our journey. Good old Triumph did the journey back and forth for a few years. I remember it breaking down a couple of times, but it was mostly fine-"it has a good engine" were always Dad's words. When we moved back to the east, it did the journey one last time. Dad parked it next to the house, in an empty plot, and it stayed there. After a few years we stopped using it and it became part of the landscape. British tourists used to stop and photograph it, a forgotten gem of a car made in Coventry, parked up behind our house. I guess it was an antique in Britain. It was an old, crumbling car in Cyprus. For years Dad said he'd have it fixed, "its engine is good", but he never did. It just stayed there, gathering dust and providing another space for the neighbourhood children to play in. It was there up until the mid-90s, when the local council offered to pick it up and take it to the scrap yard, in an attempt to tidy up the (by then) town. Dad said yes, knowing that the engine, although good, would never roar again on the hills. It was a sad day. Along with the motorways and the decline of the old routes, came the demise of the old trusted family Triumph. It was a legend of our childhood.

Three is a crowd

(Inspired (or rather reminded) by the Flight of the Conchords ep. 4, where Bret finds a girlfriend but Jermaine keeps hanging out with them, expecting to be a part of the relationship)


February 1996

It was a cold evening, as cold as it can get in Cyprus in February. Things had been a bit slow in general. My course at Uni was going well, I was pretty settled with my friends, living in a flat with two of my best mates, Mike and Chris. Life involved turning up for classes (most times), but most crucially staying up late, playing backgammon and watching a trashy Turkish music Channel called Kral TV. We didn't know it was trashy at the time of course, we thought it was high-brow and that Muazzez Ersoy a serious artist. Next to the backgammon set lay the Redhouse dictionary, which helped with words we didn't understand in the songs. It didn't help with being deaf to the phonology, unfortunately, so we ended up hearing 'one more time, my car' (bir daha arabam) instead of 'I will never call again' (bir daha aramam). It all added to the excitement. The flat was really cold, 'heated' by a woefully inadequate electric heater we'd pinched from somewhere,one of those old ones with the two bars that turn red when hot.

At the time I was really after the affections of a certain girl we'll now call Stella for anonymity's sake. Not that the real 'Stella' will ever read this blog, but anyway. Stella had lovely long curly hair and green eyes, much like a Days of Thunder-era Nicole Kidman. She looked like her too. Beautiful pale skin, freckly and nice, very nice. So you can imagine my excitement when this beautiful creature wanted to hang out with me. We spent most breaks together, just hanging out, going from acting silly to acting a bit sillier. My mate Mike was particularly adamant that I take the next step and ask her out, good and proper. As usual, anyone else but me could see that the girl liked me and there was potential. I was never good with these things. Advice to other people I can give by the bucketload, but when it comes to actually observing and judging my situation I am as blind as a mole after an 18-hour drinking session with Keith Moon.

As it happens, Cinema Paradiso, the beautiful Italian film which was all the rage a few years earlier, was on TV one night. When Stella rang to ask me round to watch it with her, I thought I was in with a big chance. Let's face it: there's no denying the obvious underlying suggestion when a girl invites a boy round her place to watch a wonderfully romantic and nostalgic film, in the language of love. So yours truly went through all the motions, well groomed, bottle of wine and flowers in the Suzuki moped's basket and off we go. She only lived round the corner from our block, but 'round the corner' in Cyprus is usually a distance you usually drive anyway, just to give the planet that coup de grâce it so desperately needs.

I went up the stairs (couldn't wait for the lift), jumping the steps two and three at a time, like an eager young Majnun on his way to meeting Layla. When Stella saw me she was pleased and happy with the flowers. The lights in the flat were low, the little settee was set up for two bodies to cosy up against each other, and the film was about to begin. Things were looking rosy for yours truly. And, as usual, that's when disaster stroke. I heard in the door the horrible sound of the keys turning, and the flatmate of doom returning home early from her politics group. Now, I must say here that I have nothing against the girl. Well, a few things stored up, perhaps. Kiki was the sort of girl that most guys found obnoxious: loud, involved in every cause, a creature that went from the green pastures of political meetings to the snowy peaks of oboe practice. She was a member of at least a dozen groups, and participated in all of them very actively. Most importantly, Kiki was not very popular in the mating arena. Being flatmates with Stella meant that attention was never directed at her. This made her spiteful and more determined to ruin the chances of her fairer (and more pleasant overall) flatmate.

"What are you guys up to? Oh, I smell popcorn! Is there a film on?" That was it. For the next two and a half hours what had been planned as a nice, romantic viewing of maybe half a film, possibly evolving into some tender exchange of bodily fluids, had degenerated into an awkward ride in the Robin Reliant of love, with Kiki playing the part of Vehicle Wheel the Third. She of course stayed and watched the whole film with us, cooing and ahh-ing with every sad, romantic or beautiful twist in the tale. The film was indeed gorgeous. I hadn't watched it before and it really brought a wobble in my throat (which I would without doubt have used in an evil ploy had Kiki not been there). It told the childhood and coming-of-age tale of Toto, a Sicilian boy whose love of films during his childhood and beautiful Elena in his teenage years dominate his life. The film was very nostalgic and at times dark, but a masterpiece nevertheless.

When the film was over, very late at night, we thought (well, I thought to be precise) that Kiki would at last leave us alone and that we'd be able to get on with things. After all, it was quite late and Kiki had been out all day, so she must have been exhausted. Again, wrong call. Kiki had just enough energy to stay up and keep us company, obviously to protect the virtue of beautiful Stella from the evil paws of the hairy bloke. So she stayed on, rabbiting on about x, y and, occasionally, z, making small talk last so long I thought I would die there and then. Although I was putting on a brave face, responding to chit chat and pretending to be civil, always the galantuomo, I was burning inside as if the Vesuvius and Etna had decided to sit in my heart for the night and play board games. What had promised to be a night to remember, for all the good reasons, turned out to be the biggest let-down since Guns n' Roses released The Spaghetti Incident?.

At about three in the morning I conceded defeat. The omnipresent and ubiquitous Kiki was not budging, but just sat there, determined to ruin it all for young Majnun. I got up, said my goodbyes, kissed both on the cheek (so as not to create a sense of unfairness and inequality) and disappeared into the night. The three -minute moped ride from Stella's block to ours felt like a lifetime. As I turned the key in the lock and entered the flat, I saw Mike and Chris in their usual positions, playing backgammon, watching Kral TV and sitting as close to the electric heater as possible. Mike turned and looked at me, as I entered with all the panache of a wet dog who'd just been kicked in the head. 'What happened? Or, in fact, what didn't happen?' I went to the kitchen, pulled out our bottle of brandy, three glasses, and sat with them to tell them the story while drowing my sorrows in the sweet, trusted friend. As we worked our way into the morning, backgammon, cheesy Turkish music, brandy and unfulfilled potential all became one, enveloped by the unrelenting February cold.

I don't quite remember what happened next with Stella. After the Kika incident, we sort of drifted apart, as if Kika represented a stonemason's wedge and feathers, driven deep into what looked like a solid, unbreakable promise. After a few empty phone calls, the romance was over. Soon over it would all be over anyway-graduation, departure for foreign lands; life has a way of ironing out the little imperfections everyday situations create on the greater fabric. It all seems so distant now, but there is nothing greater than the hurt of the unfulfilled potential, the 'what ifs' of our lives. It would have been a thousand times better if the whole thing did kick off, only to peter out in a few days. At least I'd have known. As it stands, all we have is a hypothesis.