How To Recognise People With Foreign Parents.

I’ve lived in London my whole life. I was born over here so I suppose that makes me, if not English, then British at least. So what separates me from all my English friends? Because despite the fact we all went to the same school, watched the same cartoons growing up and all now live within about a 2mile radius of each other, there is a definite difference.

It’s our families, and while my classmates were all bought up with some level of normalcy, I was raised by a man who herded sheep as a child and the woman who chose to marry him. On face value we might seem the same as every other Londoner, but once you know how to read the signs, you’ll notice that you can actually spot us as mile off…

1. You know you’re dealing with someone who has foreign parents when it takes them 10 minutes to explain to the Fed Ex guy how to spell their surname. “No… an.. as..iou… iou… no just one iou… here let me just write if for you!” Because apparently even spell-check can’t help you out with Athanasiou.

2. It doesn’t matter if she’s 26, while she’s living at home, if you’re picking her up for a date, the chances are you’re going to have to wait around the corner.

3. Also, once they do move out, it’s of no consequence how many years they’ve been living away from home, if they’re going to visit their parents, they will be coming back with a clean basket of laundry and 6 assorted Sainsbury’s carrier bags. This is has nothing to do with being spoilt, this is just how our mothers show us love.

Quiet Sunday Dinner...

4. Cooking for Sunday dinner doesn’t involve a quiet meal for 4. No, it involves peeling potatoes until your arm goes numb; after all it’s rude to cook and not invite the whole family over. And even if the whole family isn’t coming, it’s best to cook for them anyway… just in case. Don’t worry this isn’t wasteful, what doesn’t get eaten today will be re-heated four times and eaten every night next week.

5. If while cooking together you pass them the wooden spoon and they duck, I promise this is completely normal. It’s a reflex deeply ingrained in them from the age of about 10 when they brought home their first bad report card and in turn got their first beating. Other such painful memory triggers include: slippers, brooms and their mums hand.

6. This one may be Cypriot specific but, we don’t say turn ‘on the lights’, we say ‘open the lights’. And no, despite being corrected several million times, we still don’t care that it doesn’t make any sense.

7. We have all at some point in our lives received a lecture which is a variation on the classic: “I came to this country with only two pounds in my pocket and I worked hard to build all this for you so you and your sister could have everything…” This may have something to do with the fact our parents believe we don’t recognise hard work due to the fact we have never ploughed a field.

8. “I’m going on holiday to see my family” tends to mean “see you in 5 weeks. I may have a twinge to my accent upon return and if all goes to plan I will be almost black”.

9. Despite being born over here, and having cultivated just about every British tradition going,  we still refer to everyone else as: “English People“.

Souvla Sunday...

10. Again, this may be a Cypriot specific adaptation, derived from the days where public transport was called Laki The Donkey, or perhaps it’s a result of our families missing the village days where everything you ever needed was a 3 minute walk away. Either way we all live pretty much down the same road, or at a push a couple of roads over. This essentially saves money on phone calls because you don’t need to call everyone to invite them to a Sunday BBQ, you just put the meat on and wait for them to smell it.


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City Girl In The Country.

Me & My Welsh Garden

There are sheep in Wales. Lots and lots of sheep. What’s a girl to do with all these sheep? Short of skinning them and making myself a cute little jumper, I’m lost for thought.

Usually my idea of a vacation involves sex on the beach (the drink not the act) and a tan, not fields and a growing addiction to Daim bars. But my family had booked a cottage for eight, and I’d be damned if I was staying at home to eat McDonalds-for-one on Easter Sunday.

I changed my mind when I saw the sign “Welcome to Wales”, or as it read: “ Chroesawa at Cymru”. Yes they have their own Language. Yes I’d forgotten about it. Yes it looks a lot like those late night indecipherable messages you get from your drunk friends.

Not that I needed a sign to tell me we’d left London anyway. The air smells different you know. I felt as though my nostrals were taking a wander through a fresh garden salad. Appealing to some I’m sure, but as a born and bred London girl, I prefer my air with a hint of pollution.

Not that I can’t appreciate a bit of greenary, and Pembroke was certainly that. Sitting in the garden of our cottage, making my way through my third bag of chicken crisps (because you can’t enjoy a beautiful view without snacks) I decided, this country-side malarkey wasn’t half bad. Plus, I’m convinced I’d live about 20 years longer if I lived out there; chances of getting eaten by wild goat aside, it all seems pretty safe to me. Not to mention stress free. At the time I was bewildered by the lack of elderly people over there, but looking back I must consider the possibility that life in Wales is probably just wrinkle free.

What? So We Got A Bit Excited By The Beach

And there was a beach. That combined with my weight gain of 4 pounds pretty much gives my trip to Wales all the makings of a real holiday. Though be warned, if you do choose to forgo Malia and make your way over to sheep-ville instead, leave your stilettos at home. Take it from me, the only site they’ll be seeing is the inside of your suitcase. It turns out these heels were not made for walking. Well, not country hills anyway.

As for the sheep. They wern’t half bad, but three hours of slow barbecuing… made them a lot better.


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