Big Fat Greek 18th

We arrive at 'Galu', in Surrey. Champagne is served in the privately hired restaurant, as the room fills with family and friends. My brother is enjoying the champers a little too much.

“Hello, you are looking well, ” says my dad, to a man he recognizes.

“Yes, we’re lucky, we’re good looking b******s,” replies this man.

And so the night begins…

The atmosphere is buzzing, Mediterranean glamour exudes everywhere. I spot a yaya in leopard print; a gentle reminder that F.A.B.U.L.O.U.S. isn’t just a word. I’m definitely in the right place. I can’t help but smile at this point. (Hopefully no one saw me.)

How refreshing. Not least because there is an abundance of animal print .

I’m so glad I'm sporting a shiny dress and fur (it isn’t real, relax) coat.

Tables are ordered tactfully into different groups. I sit down drink in hand, and start to make conversation with other guests on my table. I meet a girl whose life has been so similar to my own it’s no longer uncanny, it's just scary. She's smart and gorgeous, naturally.

“How do you know Andreas?” and “You look Greek!” are the opening lines.

"Xekina Mia Psaroboula" is playing, as the mezze is served.

We all begin to stuff our *delicate* faces. Wow, normally I eat all the pies alone.

*EYESLIGHTUP* Calamari are served then meats, fruit, cake & Greek sweets…by now I’m bulging, so I attempt to wash it down with a glass of wine, or two.

It doesn’t work, I just feel my cheeks getting redder and my smiles getting sloppy.

The Greek dancing ensues, and I have to admit I wanted to join in, but I didn't want to spoil the seriousness of those arm moves. Then out of nowhere, Mama and Papa start dancing ‘Greek style’ without knowing the moves, I'm encouraging them obviously.

After an indulgent few hours, which made my high school leaving ball at the queen stand seem like the set of sesame street, the cab has arrived in a less than cindarella-esque manner, and we leave.

Good bye little-peice-of-Greece, hello stuffed vine leaves and the gym. URGH.

Doris, the little blue car

I have this friend and she has this car; her name is 'Doris' (Dot), the car that is. My girls have a thing about naming their cars, I suppose it makes them feel more significant in our lives when we look back at all the times we ‘drove here and there’, and went to see ‘this or that…’

Honey and Ethol, are other members of the car family. But Doris is probably my favorite; we’ve been through a lot together. Namely getting lost and running out of petrol in random places, usually when you really need to NOT get lost and run out of petrol. Like on the motorway on the way to Cardiff, or, parked uphill far away from home and money, or during midnight cruises through central London gawping at the Harrods display windows, whilst being chased by crazy mice. We've even been mistaken for 'doggers' in the past, while enjoying a great view and our favorite chip-shop chips.

Yes, Doris has a few stories to tell.

Most recently, she accompanied us to the countryside looking for a wildlife reserve in the woods, at night. Yes, that’s right in-the-woods-at-night. Good idea why not, right? WRONG!

It went a bit like this…

Pal: “I want to look for this place I have work experience at next week, I’ve got the tom-tom, will you come with me?”

Me: “OK.”

Driving…chatting…we arrive at a side road off the motorway somewhere. The road is bumpy. Bumpy is an understatement. There are ditches either side of the car. Pitch black. *please see above picture*

“What are those, wait is that, are they? SH*T, we’re driving past a cemetery!” *shiver*

We’re getting scared at the idea that by some coincidence the tires are going to burst, and we are blatantly going to re-live some demented horror film, if we don’t GET-OUT-OF-HERE.

Alas, we see lights up ahead. It looks like a lorry, one of those massive ones they have in America…in all the (moment of realisation) HORROR FILMS! *S.C.R.E.A.M*

SCREECH! We’re really getting scared now, what was that? Over-grown branches are clawing at our Doris. We find the place. Mission accomplished. We start heading back.

BANG! “What is that under the car,” said my anxiety inducing friend. So, she gets out and looks underneath, it’s a MASSIVE branch wedged under the car.

ARE –YOU-SERIOUS. We can’t move, and another car is coming to block us in from some other random country lane. I jump out, lift, wedge, push and pull ( Because if I don’t a crazy Freddie-esque man is going to charge out of the bushes any second) until it is out. Back in the car, we head off.

Too much excitement for a school night. Poor Dot. We love Doris, she's so much more than a little blue car. Where would we have been without her these past few years? BORED, I expect.

Hello autumn, hello London

It's been a while since my last blog, and a whole lot has changed. Not least my career path. I am no longer surrounded by seriously worrying questions like "where is Cardiff?" ; which I felt rude to answer, at the risk of sounding patronsing.

So I woke up today, determined to blog something again (I have a L.O.N.G list of things I want to talk about which are just going to have to HOLD ON).

I only have a few minutes so I will just throw you a few things to chew on.

*My list of thoroughly interesting things in London*

1)The Metro reckons in ten years time, there will be a Cyborg in every home...( I kept telling everyone irobot was no joke )

2)There is such a thing as a 'fish pedicure'. You either love it or hate it and it involves placing your feet into a pool of tiny fish, which basically EAT all the dead skin leaving your feet smooth and silky. For more information visit http://www.aquasheko.co.uk (or not)

3)Speaking the same language as a 'barrista' in London Cafe Nero's will get you a few free stamps= *dancing*

4)Best cupcake award (according to much accredited food critic, me) is the Hummingbird Bakery 'Red Velvet'. Go and try this bitesize peice of heaven ASAP.

I'm going now because dad's making dinner. (My dad is a chef extraordinaire don'cha know)

For further food evny read more about Chef Crisci here...www.theclinkonline.com