7 Reasons

Tag: Identity

  • Guest Post: 7 Reasons I Am Most Probably Half-Greek

    Guest Post: 7 Reasons I Am Most Probably Half-Greek

    We’ve never really mentioned publicly our gratitude those of you who submit guest posts. Mainly because the vast majority of them give writing a bad name. One lady who hops, skips and jumps her way to the other end of the spectrum though, is Things To Do In Manchester supremo, Liz Gregory. Regular 7 Reasons readers will remember with great fondness Liz’s previous posts about dolphin’s embodying the devil and mince pies. So you, like us, will be delighted to see her back on the 7 Reasons sofa today. Though it has to be said she looks like she’s having a bit of an κρίση ταυτότητας. And if that sounds greek to you, that’s because it is. Here’s Liz:

    7 Reasons I Am Most Probably Half-Greek

    Having recently returned to rain-drenched Britain after a week in Kefalonia, I have decided that I am not in fact a pasty-faced Mancunian but indeed something far more exotic. I realise now that I am at least half Greek, and can offer the following evidence to any doubters (including, perhaps reasonably, family members).

    1.  The Weather. In Greece, it is sunny. Always. In fact, I would go so far as to say that the temperatures in Greece are actually just silly. Such heat makes any kind of strenuous activity impossible, and forces one to spend the entire day lying quietly by the pool, drinking cold beer in a frosted glass, and occasionally having a quick frolic in the water to cool off. I found, to my surprise, that I was good – no, make that very good – at doing this; I would even say I was something of a natural.

    2.  My Wardrobe. I essentially wear the same clothes all year round, and am the proud owner of approximately 1,297 pretty much identical little dresses with flowers on them (or sometimes, a daring stripe). Imagine my delight to find that in Greece, such items can actually be worn ON THEIR OWN, without the addition of cardigans, thick tights and leggings (sometimes all at once) – a truly liberating feeling.

    3.  The Tan. For reasons hitherto beyond my comprehension, I have skin that tans exceptionally easily; this is now easily explained by my new-found Greek heritage. I have returned from my holiday a most pleasing colour, which looks all the more striking when cunningly accessorised with an obviously non-Greek husband who appears to have come back paler than when he went.

    4.  The Food – Part One. My favourite crisps in the whole wide world (and I am quite a connoisseur if I do say so myself) are Walkers Sensations. In Greece, these are called Lays Sensations. I like this name better, and am therefore obviously both a/ Greek and b/ the owner of a very mature sense of humour.

    5.  The Food – Part Two. One of the best bits of being on ANY holiday is that you are forced to eat out every night, and are thereby released from the drudgery of trying to think up exciting new ways with the excess of whatever item is dominating the vegetable box this week. Greek food is particularly rewarding, offering meaty goodness at every turn and merrily deep-frying any passing vegetable until all its nutrients are safely neutralised. I am clearly cut out for this kind of diet, as I have come back weighing less than I did before, despite eating a kilo of bread before every meal and consuming three cows and a lamb during the course of my stay.

    6.  The Alcohol. I am not really one for drinking spirits in the UK, preferring to up my 5-a-day fruit and vegetable quota by having wine instead. However, I enjoy both Ouzo and *whispers* Metaxa Brandy, and only a properly Greek person could say that.

    7.  My Promising Fluency In The Greek Language. Obviously, the Greek language does itself no favours by using silly squiggles and shapes instead of proper letters, but despite such obstacles I found myself in full possession of an almost entire vocabulary after just a few days. I can say: hello, good morning, good evening, goodbye, please, cheers, how are you, and very well thank you; what more, frankly, does one need? By the way, all the haters on Twitter who suggested I should learn the useful phrase “more please” were roundly ignored.

    So there you go; incontrovertible proof of my inherent Greek-ness. Now all I have to do is sort the maths out, as I’m fairly sure I’m half Spanish and half Italian as well…

  • 7 Reasons The Gents Is Not The Place For Conversation

    7 Reasons The Gents Is Not The Place For Conversation

    Given my reputation as someone who has a butler, this may come as something of a shock. I use public toilets. Though sometimes I wish I didn’t.

    7 Reasons The Gents Is Not The Place For Conversation

    I follow the maze of corridors and eventually find the door to the Gents. It’s empty as I walk in. And silent. Until I hear…

    1.  “Alright?” I’m a bit startled by this. A voice has never said ‘alright’ to me before. Not in the toilets. I spin around but there is no one there. No one. Not a sign of life anywhere. This is new territory. And I don’t like it very much. Now, for 7 reasons that I can’t explain, I believe in God. And one day, if I’m good, I hope to meet him. What I never expected, was that I’d meet him on a Saturday afternoon in the pub toilet. I suspect that is probably the romantic in me. I’m not quite sure what to say back. With my hand hovering near my flies I suddenly feel very self-conscious. Part of me thinks, ‘Hello Sir’ would be a suitable reply, but then my legs seem to want me to curtsy. My thinking must have lasted quite a while because before I have the chance to reply I hear the voice again.

    2.  “Hello.” This time I follow the direction in which the voice has come. And I see a cubicle with a shut door. I immediately feel stupid. It wasn’t God. It was some bloke sitting on the loo. And all of a sudden this thought hits me very hard. There is a bloke; sitting on a loo; in a public toilet; trying to talk to me. I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all. I want to run but I haven’t even started my public facilities objective yet. I hurry to the nearest convenience, desperately hoping I don’t hear the voice again. But I do.

    3.  “How’s it going?” How’s it going? How’s it going?! What sort of a question is that?! Between you and me, I can tell you it was going very nicely thank you, but I’m not going to tell him that am I?! My heart is racing a bit now. I know exactly what is happening. All this sweet talking has one and only one aim. He wants to pick me up.

    4.  “Hey Dave, that is you isn’t it?” Ah. Well maybe I was wrong. Maybe he doesn’t want to pick me up. Maybe he just wants to pick Dave up. Relief. At least relief until he says, “Dave?” And now I have a new problem. Quite clearly I am not Dave. I don’t look like Dave, I don’t sound like Dave, I don’t have a bladder like Dave’s. I’m Jon. But of course the bloke doesn’t know this because he can’t see me and I haven’t said anything. So to him, I am definitely Dave. So what do I do? I can’t say, “No, sorry mate, I’m Jon”. That would just embarrass both of us. I suppose I could pretend to be Dave, but when you are standing in the toilets the last thing you really want to be doing is pretending you are another man. So my only other option is to stay silent. And so that is exactly what I do. And silence works. Silence tells the bloke that I am not Dave. Silence tells the bloke that this is now an uncomfortable situation for both of us and as such he should remain in his cubicle until I have left. But that’s not what happens. Because all of a sudden I hear the sound of…

    5.  Water Flushing. What the hell?! What is he doing?! Doesn’t he know I am still here?! I feel like shouting, “Stay in there man! Do not leave the cubicle.” I need to get out of here. Before he opens the door. But I have had tea. A lot of tea. And, a bit like one’s relationship with Pringles, once one’s popped one can’t stop. I am sorry, but I have to tell you this so you understand the gravity of the situation, I am going on forever. But the good news is that the man hasn’t left the cubicle yet. Maybe he is waiting. Maybe it’s all going to be okay. I make it to the sink to wash my hands. And then the…

    6.  Door Opens. And our eyes meet in the reflection of the mirror. And for some reason neither of us can stop staring at each other. He looks uncomfortable. I feel uncomfortable. And we are still staring at each other. It’s only when I realise that I am scolding my hands under the hot tap that I can finally look away. He uses the sink next to me. I don’t dare look in the mirror. Instead I move quickly to the paper towels to dry my hands. Finally, the tension in the room is snapped, as someone enters the gents. I don’t care who it is, I don’t need to find out, I don’t need to look at them. I am just very grateful to them. Then they walk behind me and say…

    7.  “Alright Jon.” I spin around and say, “Hi!”. At exactly the same moment as the other bloke says, “Alright Dave.”