Bachelor Boy

Living Alone – and coping

When my sister moved to Rome in 1959, there was a thriving market stretching from Piazza Annibaliano all the way up the Viale Eritrea. When I last visited her in Italy, a few years ago, I looked forward to strolling around and looking at the produce on offer but by then, the stalls had disappeared and the matrons of Rome had started shopping at Lidl, which is a great loss to the time-honoured tradition of what we now call Farmers’ Markets.

The Wednesday Market in my district of Athens

Here in Greece, the tradition still thrives in my quarter of Athens, where Wednesday is market day on Hodos Psaron (the road just behind my apartment building.) The vans start to come in from the surrounding villages early every Wednesday morning, and by ten o’clock, the stall-holders are in fine voice, handing out half-oranges to passers-by and urging them to “taste the difference,” while shrewd shoppers (myself included) are assessing whether the tomatoes at €1,20 per kilo are really worth more than twice the price of the tomatoes at 49 cents per kilo.

One way and another, this is a colourful and atmospheric part of the city to inhabit, and I never expected to be here – nor in Athens for that matter. When I originally volunteered to join “Iokasti’s Kitchen” it was based in Samos, and I budgeted on the fact that there was free accommodation on offer. It was only one week before I left Lincoln, that the operation decided to relocate to Athens and I was left with the challenging task of putting a roof over my head in a European capital for the best part of four months while still paying my rent and overheads back home in Lincoln.

My home in Athens

My simple studio apartment, on the roof of a slightly shabby block, was – as they say in the classified ads – part-furnished. In fact, it was all but unfurnished apart from a ceiling-high, built-in wardrobe, a new-ish refrigerator, a very rough shelving unit, and a mattress. There was a furniture shop just up the road and happily for me, though less so for the proprietor, they were having a clearance sale, enabling me to pick up a small double bed complete with an orthopaedic mattress for just under £100.

Hardly a luxurous terrace
- but that's the Parthenon on the horizon!

My flat opens out onto the building’s flat roof, where various items have been jettisoned over the years. I have been very fortunate to have found this comfortable pied-à-terre, and am blissfully happy on my days off, as I lie on my sun bed (a redundant single mattress) gazing over to the Acropolis on the horizon, where the Parthenon gleams in the sunlight.

I found a discarded bedspread which I took to the laundrette with my washing and it came up beautifully. My treasured Indian dhoti makes a perfect bedsheet. Tucked behind some of the satellite dishes and solar water heaters on the roof, I found a couple of side tables and two, rather battered bedside cabinets so, all-in-all, my bachelor pad is now pretty well equipped.

Except for one thing lacking, that is: Cooking equipment. There is no kettle, no cooker, (not even an electric cooking ring,) no toaster, no microwave, no cutlery, bowls, plates, cups or glasses. Not even a corkscrew. There was some crockery, amounting to one espresso-sized, bone-china cup and three saucers. Having the weekly market on my doorstep meant that I soon found a decent chef’s knife, a stainless steel “camping” plate and mug and a terribly kitsch, melamine, Chinese fruit bowl decorated with a wreath of pink roses.(- so much my style, don’t you think?)

 But I cannot boil an egg, make a mug of tea or sauté a pan of fresh shrimps. Consequently, I have tp be highly creative and have been exploring the idea of high-speed pickling. No, this wasn’t something I had ever done before, but I had been inspired by the number of contestants on Masterchef Professional who made instant chutneys and pickles and consequently, I decided to experiment.

I solved the problem of containers by saving every plastic 1.5-litre water bottle and cutting these down to make pots. In these I keep my fresh herbs, store my carrots and onions and pickle various vegetables to add to my tomatoes and lettuce. I make a base of sweet brine with salt, sugar, water and wine vinegar, then I marinade sliced cucumber with fresh dill, or courgettes with mint, and even hard vegetables like carrot and beetroot – cut into matchsticks. 

When I combine these with the wonderfully sweet chopped tomatoes I have the base which I can top with stuffed vine-leaves or gigantes – butter beans in a tomato sauce, or tinned tuna or sardines.

All this is washed down with very drinkable red wine at £1.60 per magnum (yes – 1.5 litres!) and if I want something sweet to end my meal, the Bulgarian supermarket sells packs of four, very moreish chocolate éclairs for £1.50.

Oh yes – it’s a tough life being a philanthropist. . . .and it gets tougher.

I have eighteen grandchildren. Some have had the kind consideration to be born overseas (Canada, Hong Kong, and the USA;) others have emigrated (from New Zealand to Amsterdam) and others lead very busy lives, have no spare bedroom, or fulfil both of these two considerations. Consequently, I have managed to avoid many of the grandfatherly duties that many of my contemporaries seem to relish - like playing catch, reading bedtime stories, or – watching Disney videos over, and over again. The fact is that I really enjoy being relatively remote in Lincolnshire, living as a quiet, solitary degenerate bachelor with my intellectual dinner parties, my eclectic taste in music (Indian Ragas and African Township Jazz) and my range of fine malt whiskies.

I am not sure what excuses my children and their spouses proffer when my descendants ask difficult questions like “Does Grandpa Bob remember me, or is he still alive?” But I trust the discretion and tactical honesty of all parties to keep reasserting both the myth and the reality. Truth be known; while I say all this, I really do miss the little buggers; - and the big buggers. They are all so busy, they barely find a moment to wave to me if I call them on Facetime or Skype.

My improper and nonpaternal behaviour is now coming back to haunt me. A volunteer organisation has invited me to be the honorary grandpa in the children’s centre they are running in a marquee in one of the refugee camps, for a month or so, from June 1^st. And, truth be known, June 1^st can’t come soon enough. It’s about time I practised being more of a Grandpa and less of a Grinch.

I'll tell you how it all works out once I start my new assignment.