Temperatures are
soaring; England’s Queen Elizabeth keeps
cool in a wide-brimmed bonnet as she sets off to meet England's Ashes cricket
team at Lords. Deputy Prime Minister Nick
Clegg reveals he has stopped wearing shoes (and socks) in his government office
to prevent his feet from overheating, Kate Middleton is encouraged to eat curry
to kick-start labour, a Royal Guard sweats in the heat outside St James' Palace
in central London, and a hungry horse orders an ice-cream at the Dovey Estuary
in Mid-Wales.
Enduring a lengthy
summer is a prerequisite for most Southern Europeans; the temperature in Cyprus
seldom sways from the thirty-nine degree mark as I justify the pool of water on
my t-shirt when talking to the bank manager.
If Cyprus was a crime-stricken country, I would certainly fit the
profile of a neurotic bank robber.
And, having three
people trapped in my mammoth-sized figure inspires me to find refuge in an
air-conditioned office as I sip on my frozen yoghurt and stare at the sluggish
pace of the office clock.
Reverting to my
favourite city, London is often referred to by my wife as an “exciting city
with the worst luck in weather.”
“If the weather
were different, and if London had the sea, I would move there at the skip of a
heartbeat.”
The gods are
certainly smiling upon me now, as I enter phase two of my relocation programme;
the extended British summer has yielded me towards the south coast, to a city
called Brighton.
My presentation
would have to include the benefits of living in this idyllic part of the world;
a movie titled ‘Wimbledon’ will certainly convince my spouse to at least
consider this seaside resort, and with London being less than an hour away by train,
I may have found the winning formula.
My diet seems to
be under control these days, although I am seriously considering an outburst
over the weekend. An overpowering Greek
family chomping on a pecan nut waffle with vanilla ice cream (on Sunday at my
mother’s house) definitely trumps my low-fat rice pudding with its pitiful ‘dust’
of cinnamon.
But the summer heat
has an adverse effect on my dietary intake.
Most ‘normal’ people are inclined to limit their heavy meals this time
of year, and one often observes the masses flaunting their water bottles as “the
essential accessory.” I am inclined to spoil
The Three Tenors, the uncontrollable
trio hiding within my body, with a generous helping of Spaghetti
Napoletana. A side-serving of toasted
Greek bread, drizzled with a copious marriage of olive oil and dry oregano; a
glass of red wine and an extended session of “siesta on the couch.”
As Londoners
continue to bask in the glorious sunshine, removing their shoes and socks as
they cool off in one of the city’s luscious parks, perhaps Kate Middleton would
consider the troop of photographers, absorbing the scorching rays while
gathered outside St Mary’s hospital, and finally take a bite of that blessed
chicken curry – then everyone could finally go home.
Weight
for me soon. Paul
Paul Lambis is the author of “Where is Home?” – A journey of hilarious contrasts.
For more information on Paul Lambis, and to order his book online,
visit www.paul-lambis.com
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