09 January 2009


So it's a 'Tassia Day' and she'd cleaned and cooked and cosseted ...


  • Actually, I *wish*. She is a very cute lady.
  • Looks 19 but is a mother of two, one of whom is a huge strapping lad who, I gather, could converse with me in Greek, English, German and Russian. Oh, and also his native Albanian. Clever me to know all those languages, yeh?
  • Seriously, that is what industry gets you: Kostas is yer basic skilled builder, gardener, tree trimmer, Rembrandt of the chainsaw, blah blah. He's building an enormous house with a killer view that maybe one day he'll hire *me* to come and clean.
  • He sends his sons to school and drives them hard so that one day they will have posh jobs and wear suits and ties and drink martinis and watch the sun rise. One generation.
  • One day they'll bring a classy chick home and it'll be like "Dad, I'm bringing this really nice girl for dinner so - please - look decent and mom, don't let dad just hand her a gallon of tsiporo in a tooth mug. She comes from a really nice home." ("And your father and I haven't made a nice home for you? Children! They break your heart. Oy veh! " Or the Albanian equivalent)
  • Yes, Tassia is a hottie and I drive her back home each time and over the years I've not surprisingly been spotted by envious pals.
  • "God you're a dark horse. You stand around pretending to be spurned by one and all, but I've seen you. C'mon, who is she? She's never at any of the parties and don't tell me she's from the wilds of Wiltshire because that is a local chick and your Greek should be a lot more fluent.

    Right, back to the story.

    So I've delivered her home and we've wished each other 'good weekend' and I'm driving back and as I pass Diellas supermarché ('Smelly deli' as it's dubbed by the local expat Waitrosicrucians) I see her younger boy trudging the 2 kilometres back.

    I honk and wave and slow down and he comes right over and gets in the back with a grunted "Yassas", and I U-turn under the wheels of a juggernaut and head back home, making polite convo but getting only grunts in reply so I concentrate on finding a cool radio station.

    So we're driving along and I look in the mirror and suddenly it occurs to me that he doesn't look all that *like* the fruit of T's loins. All crewcut kids look the same to me ...

    So I ask, 'Loipon, you *are* Tassia's son?' 'Nai. Yes' 'Her younger son, nai?' (Actually that should be 'nai;' because the Greek ? is a ;)

    'Isos. Perhaps.'


    I don't know the family name so I'm going 'Son of Tassia? Wife of Kosta? I mean not YOU - Tassia the wife of Kosta, you the grandson of Vassilis ...' I'm beginning to sound like a New Testament family tree of who begat whom.

    'Ochi. No.'

    Leaping Leonidas! I slow down.

    'He is my friend. Same school.'

    I stop.

    'So where do you live?'


    'Would like to tell me where ... so I can drive you home?'

    'Is near. Proceed. I will show.'

    We pass the turning for the Kostas/Anastasia spread and he tells me where to turn and we go on a bit and then we go down a dirt track to a hovel and the mother comes out to see who it is because her darling isn't due back for a while, it being a 3K trot.

    He gets out without a word, she waves at me and I wave back and reverse and go back home.

    But ... splutter, shake of head, mop of brow ... like duuude!, as My Lord Edgeworth taught me to pronounce ... double dude, indeed.

    Where I've come from, even slow down to check out a young lad will have a flashing blue light in your mirror; wave at him, that's 2 to 5 and better not retrieve the soap in the shower, you pervert.

    I'm still shaking: having an unknown lad actually get into your car? I'd have to become someone's bitch mighty fast to stay remotely alive in the clink.

    Whoa! When Tass' comes again next Tuesday, she will no doubt have heard of the nice xenos and I will have a stern word with her about little boys accepting rides from strangers.


    Sibadd said...

    That's so funny. No really! Oh and thanks for the GV memoire - well worth waiting for and I'd wish for life after death just so that decent brilliant man could meet up with Jimmy Trimble again. Long ago I made some crass adolescent phobic remark to Angus Wilson - not about him but about a master at public school - that I still regret. Your story bought it to mind.

    Busker said...
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