Flash, Bang, Wallop!

          I hadn’t planned to stay up for the fireworks, but I was reading a real page-turner of a novel* and, before I knew it, midnight was almost upon me. So, I woke my Other Half and we stepped out onto the terrace of the apartment we’re renting here in Athens. From its elevated position we must have seen every firework discharged to the east and south of the city centre. Then we went to bed – only to be awoken at 03.00 by another burst of explosions, seemingly outside our window. Now, I can take or leave firework displays – I can certainly leave them at 03.00 – because they are so ephemeral. They may be intended as an expression of joy but, in party terms, they are like those ‘show-and-go’ guests: they don’t sustain the proceedings. And anyway, when it comes to December 31^st, I question whether they’re signalling the end of the old or the start of the new year. Either way depends on your outlook, I suppose. But the older I get, the clearer it becomes.

          Nowadays, my past is far more extensive than my future and I’m inclined to wax nostalgic rather than to look forward with excitement at the prospect of my imminent and inevitable demise. Not that I’m constantly on the lookout out for symptoms or checking the obituaries for updates on my contemporaries. It’s just that there have been one or two incidents this week that have raised questions. Like when I put some root vegetables to roast in the oven and, half an hour later, discovered that the dish I had put them in had melted to become a flat piece of silicone, studded with colourful slices of heritage carrots etc.. But to be fair to me and my ageing faculties, this is not my kitchen and these are not my familiar pots.

          The same cannot be said of the other incident – the mystery of the noise in the bathroom. It sounded like someone was using a drill in the adjacent apartment, so I thought nothing of it at first. But, three hours later, I thought it odd they hadn’t taken a break. A little afterwards, I discovered that the noise emanated from a ceramic pot beside the basin, in which my nifty electric travelling toothbrush was thrashing away at imaginary gnashers. I laughed, but had I really forgotten to turn it off? Technically at least, the answer is no. That morning, as I recalled, it had failed to operate when I pushed its button so, assuming the battery to be exhausted, I made a mental note to get a new one and popped it back in the toothbrush pot. Later, what turns out to be a dodgy switch re-connected to the not-at-all exhausted battery. (It’s still going strong, four days later.)

          Then there was the afternoon at the Christian and Byzantine Museum, where I tried but failed to get a grip on the chronology, gazing intently at maps showing the extents of the various empires at successive periods in history, yet remained confused as to the chain of events. “Don’t worry,” I said to myself at last, “nothing was ever black and white. The characters, their beliefs and the political circumstances evolved over centuries. It never was clear-cut – hence the adjectival use of ‘byzantine’”.

          So, now I’m feeling more chipper about my prospects, 2024 isn’t looking so bad – as long as I put to one side geopolitics, the threats to democracy and the too-little-too-late approach to averting ecocide. Here, in my temporary microcosm, there is much to look forward to: thick black coffee in the mornings and ouzo at the cocktail hour, both served impeccably at wonky tables on the busy streets; museums and galleries galore, each competing for the ‘most charming café’ award; continuing fine weather and robust health. And, of course, my ever-present, indispensable Other Half.

*Cloud Cuckoo Land by Anthony Doerr.