Something Borrowed

His name is Bruno and he was home alone today.

So we could borrow him!

The park was a lush green paradise of birdsong and sunshine filtered through a million leaves.

Bruno enjoyed the smell aspects of it.

And some womanising. Oh dear!

Cyprus is so gorgeous!


And apparently, smells fabulous too.


Writing for a Living

I write for money! Yes I do.

Nope, not for the Cyprus Mail. It’s there for breakfast and lunch companionship only!

I receive blueprints and pour over them like a woman possessed. Then begin frantic area research and note taking. In challenging cases, enlist a music streaming service.

What’s near the development?

What will the views be like?

How does one get anyplace?


Start typing: architecture, design. Landscaping, layouts.

And all the practical stuff, try to be a bit more brief for goodness’ sake, it isn’t a bleeding novel!

Selling points? Hmm.

Introduction. (This is everything.)

Title options. Usually too long, grimace.

Chop! Mourn.

Okay? Off it goes.

Burst through school gates. Panting, so late, so disheveled and not bearing snacks it seems actually.

Usher people to Greek tutoring.

Sit in the car a bit cold. Fantasize of writing for fun maybe tonight.

Like lock my door, turn up the music?

Then, for goodness’ sake, write like there’s no tomorrow?


Yes! Yes!!

Maybe tomorrow?

The Last World

After the café and the swings you said, ”Mummy, is this the last world? After this one, will there ever be another one?”

Your innocent wondering may have been Super Mario inspired, but it stopped me cold in my tracks. All my guilty plane tickets, all my kilometres driven and all the plastic items I ever bought came over me right there, like a huge dirty tidal wave.

Of regret.

I am sorry I haven’t done more to save your last world, love. I don’t know how, or I do I guess, but it seems next to impossible as a choice. You don’t have to but I hope you can forgive me one day. I haven’t tried hard enough.


There’s no other world for you honey, this is it. This is what I’m leaving you. It looks beautiful and peaceful today, but it’s going to become harder to live in.

I hope you’ll be strong enough, I hope you can stay kind and caring if things get difficult. I hope after it gets worse, it gets better. A lot better, better than we could ever design or plan for, or indeed make happen.


We are not a great generation that saves you and your world. We are the bad guys: the selfish, the stubbornly ignorant and the lazy. The image-anxious. The corrupt and the power hungry.

I see you get to know the world around us, I can see how exciting and beautiful it is for you. I see you study the stars and I want to see them through your eyes. I want to see them through your kids’ eyes, and their kids’. I want them to study and stand on the rooftop and look at stars, because everything down here is fine, and they can – why couldn’t they?

‘There’s no other planet where people can live, dear’, I say gently, squeezing your little hand a bit tighter. But of course, your busy little mind has already moved on.


After Cyprus, Where Would You Go?

‘When the man loves the woman more, they have sons’, declared the Ukrainian grandma at the head of the table, nodding at our kids. ‘Da’ attested my gentlemanly husband, giving my thigh a gentle little pat.

We are not this slim, it’s my friend’s camera:)

We were seated around a solid wood table with flowers in the middle, this is Cyprus after all. Outside the air was restlessly shifting under November rain. It was just about to hit these cobbled alleys and mountain pines, and the village dog running up and down the main street barking at cars.

He wouldn’t mind. He had a job to do. So many funny looking Nicosiades to chase!

On the table there were glasses of red, white and water, hot plates of veg and lamb and a salad with fresh bread softening in sweet olive oil. I was tasting something with a difficult name, something quite heavenly when my friend asked of our plans after Cyprus.

‘Where would we go after Cyprus?’ I wondered, looking from plate to plate desperately trying to decide what to try next. ‘What would we eat?’

There was pleasant agreement over the impossibility of eating anything in other countries. We continued the meal surrounded by the old stone walls and happily lunching kids. My other half who has been so absent-minded lately seemed to be quite content too, amidst steaming little plates being entertained by our friend the walking library of… romantic jokes.

I can imagine someone leaving Cyprus for New York maybe. Lots of good stuff to eat there!

But right now I really can’t see where else anyone would like to go after Cyprus, nor indeed why!

And I think grandma might just agree with me! She is clearly a very wise lady.

Space Tag

Tonight we got some takeaway. It’s Sunday night and we are both a bit worse for wear.

One has muscle pain after running around in the cold evening breeze thinking they were 17.

The other has her usual number of worries, just because!

This week was the last week one unlucky stray kitten got to live. His short story ended under a heat lamp at the vet’s.

Next door to him three little former strays slept in a warm and cosy heap. To wake up again soon, curious and playful, for another lovely day.

This was the week when French Conversation was cancelled and we didn’t know that. Waiting, we covered everything from space travel to Cyprus problem.

This week our building shook violently with the pitter patter of four Darth Vaders playing some kind of a beastly space tag. One of the Darths had previously soothed a fading kitten but was now full of cheery fight again.

Like you want your kids to be, a while  after a disappointment.

It was when I woke up on Saturday and decided to contribute my five cents to the Cyprus question debate. My overture was met with a surprised and a tad exasperated look from the neighbouring pillow.

This one by my spouse who is a patient type

It was the week we froze in bed. Not so much because of the CyProb pillow talk but because it seems

summer is gone.


Cyprus is a wealthy country. There are no homeless or beggars visible in the streets (although I’m sure there are some homeless and paperless hiding away in mosque courtyards and abandoned houses). But one certain kind of misery is very plain to see on this lovely island every day. Animal misery.

Yesterday it suddenly got too much. Pulled over, left my kid in the car kind of misery, devastating and impossible to drive by anymore. A sick kitten in the street was so weak he didn’t even try to get out of the cars’ way. Filthy, hopeless, tiny figure in the street.

Now he’s at the vet’s. Medicated and special fed, next door to three other kitten foundlings and a fluffy house dog. He’s warm. We hope tomorrow when I visit he’ll be better.

My name is on his cage which feels strange. I’m not his momma am I? We can’t adopt him or soon I’ll be the one sick and suffering (I have asthma).
But he surely made a mark.

When my son talked to him, the kitten kept talking back. Lifted his little paw towards him against the side of the cardboard box. Then began to nod off exhausted, mid-thought. His paw still towards a friendly face and a warm voice, someone.


First morning at the clinic. All shaggy from flea spray and very sleepy too.

Summer Clothes

Yeah so I came in summer clothes.

Without an umbrella.

Hideous weather, fun hideous pics. (Everybody in this picture is gorgeous – just the photo is bad!)

‘Tis wet.

‘Tis freezin’.

Most puddly.

Yesterday it was lovely and sunny and balmy. Because we were at the conference. Fun as it was, and it was, the event gobbled up the entire sunny day and today I the wind and rain goes into my back and my neck and oh why!

Why am I standing here mugged by the elements?

Where is my umbrella? Woolly hat and shawl? Woolly nosewarmer, waterproof brainhat? Someone give me some friggin’ wool or a sheep and shears or what are them wool scissors and let me live!

London in summer clothes – a delightful October weekend escape from the Mediterranean! Buy your tickets and your shears now at Smart Dresser Autumn Travels Inc.

Tulle Line to Central London

On the Piccadilly line, somewhere where we are still traveling above ground, a mum enters with three daughters dressed in thick, ruffled tulle skirts. The girls sit down on my suitcase, climb on others, hang off the poles and sing. They are on their way to a dance recital somewhere in central London.

Mum is on the phone to dad and everyone’s eager to talk to him. The kids close their eyes tightly when mum paints their faces with glitter. They look stunning before and after and of course have no idea that they do.

The ride is long and boring so they sit on the dusty floor of the train in their full tulle and zest. They take pouty selfies and mum has to tell them not to do hand stands on a moving underground train.

Next it’s YouTuber girls. So loud that mum gets irritated glares from the man in the suit. He is hogging two seats, one for himself and one for his bag, while others on the rush hour train stand and sway. She ignores him.

Acrobatics! More singing. Then out!

One noisy cloud of hair bows and chewing gum rushes from the platform towards the escalator, a mum behind them.

It’s quiet. The man in the suit looks relieved.

I wonder how the sisters’ big night will go and whether they will return chirpy or squabbling. And when will men with briefcases learn that it’s ruder to hog places for bags than to be a lively girl on the underground.

Which I never was.


I wasn’t able to snap anything resembling a cat portrait because our friend was on the move all the time. ‘Let me’ said my kid!

Officially one of a million and a half. But not to us!

Because he has an old injury in his front leg but

still comes running whenever we step out the front door.

The first time my son saw him

he couldn’t think of anything but the poor broken legged cat and what would become of him.

Then we made friends with him.

And found out it’s an old problem and that

he is actually the happiest and friendliest cat we’ve ever known!

He is not in pain now.

The entire neighbourhood feeds and spoils him.

He purrs like a lawnmower.

We wish we could adopt him. But since that would slowly suffocate me to death, I’m thinking we’ll hang out instead.

Is that okay, dear little friend?

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