Greek woman don't mess around

I have a friend affectionately known as The Greek (which is not such an effective nickname when actually visiting her in Athens). She is gorgeous - great figure, beautiful olive skin and dark hair... brains, scathing tongue and wit to balance it all off.

And I just can't help picturing her in this story, reported on BBC website. Although, 'my' Greek would have been more likely to castrate the man with a scrotum-shrinking comment. A less physical, but equally scorching, tactic - and one that I have had the delight of witnessing on occassion over the years. Good times.

Back to the story on the Beeb... I love the fact that the woman is reported as the 'attacker'. It couldn't be construed as an 'alleged attack', or possibly, a 'retaliation'. I know some women can be slightly, um, expressive.. but I don't know many women, all nationalities considered, who fire off precious cocktails as liquid ammunition with no provocation whatsoever.

But my favourite part is that the loving father claims his innocent, assailed son did nothing to provoke it. Hands up anyone (anyone?) who buys that. Sorry to be that person who lumps all people of a certain gender, of a certain age bracket, of a certain nationality in one basket, but I've seen and dealt with enough drunk pommie prats on holiday (Red Light District anyone?) to call shenanigans on that. Slappers back home may be up for some over-the-bra action, but that's not going to fly with the locals on the Med.

Unlikely that we'll find out what actually happened (and I don't care that much to actually try to follow the story further), but here on my top three conjectures:

1. He was drunkenly harrassing anything with ovaries, she flipped her drink on him and (as she claims) stalked off. One of her friends (or a fellow harrassee) saw the opportunity to further ignite the situation and took a lighter to his loins.
2. He (the attackee) was so persistant in his groping, or eventually did something so reprehensible, that she threw him with a cocktail of molotov consequences.
3. She flipped her drink on him in front of his mates (they tend to travel in packs) and stalked off. In a drunken attempt to save face, he tries to turn the public rebuffal into a party trick and sets fire to his own crotch.

Personally, I'm more inclined to the third option.

Girly Gumption

A few weeks ago, I was in London. While there, I was attempting to get from my lodgings in NW to central London. The easiest route was via the Jubilee Line. What I wasn't counting on was getting stuck in throngs of (drunken)(sweaty) Ashes cricket fans as they left after the day's play.

What I also wasn't counting on was the Jubilee line being closed to an unfortunate 'body falling onto the tracks' (read: drunken cricket fan), and me being stuck on an underground platform with several thousand Australian and English sporting fans rehashing the good, the bad and the ugly of the second test. Now would probably be a good time to indicate that the function I was going to had a pink theme. So I was wearing pink nail polish, pink accessories and pink lipstick and killer heels. Fitting right in with the play-weary cricket fans.

With the Jubilee line closed, I filed out with the rest of the people on the platform and tried to figure out a Plan B. I calculated that following the crowds wouldn't help. There were just so many people trying to get back into London. So I walked in the complete opposite direction. And walked and walked and walked. I was now over an hour late for the start of my intended party and so gatvol that I figured the first cabbie I saw, I was getting. Unfortunately, two other gentlemen just in front of men were having similar thoughts about their own trip into London.

This is where Mills tells me I am pathetic. Because this is where I consciously decided to play up my "me, girl... lost" *blink*flutter*flutter*. I struck up a conversation. They were British and obviously picked up on my SA accent quickly.

Did I live in London, they asked? Me - hell no (truth), in fact it's my first time to London (bare-faced lie). I have no idea where I am (half-truth). We established that they were also trying to get into Central London, not too far from where I was going (not that I would know that, of course... it being my first time into London and all). They suggested that we share a cab - if we could find one - into town. I concurred.

A short while later, the first cab appeared in the distance. I was not the only to spot it, unfortunately. Fortunately, I was the only one dressed to kill in heels. With a coy flick of my hair, I made sure I got the cabbie's attention. The cabbie, in turn, made sure to blatantly ignore the three pissed cricket louts in the process of jaywalking to his cab.

True to my word, I asked the cab driver to wait for my two new found friends. Mostly because they were nice enough blokes, but also because I was pretty sure I would get out of paying the cab fare if we travelled together.

What? It's true. I knew it, they knew, the driver knew it. I put up with their touristic spurts of information as we drove through the London West End. Wow, really? The theatre district? Cool.

I got door-to-door service (well, technically streetwalking-to-door service), and they got to perve a little bit longer before I got out of the cab. I was younger than them and dolled up to the nines. They were wearing beer goggles and happy for some eye candy after waiting on a smelly platform for a tube that didn't arrive. See, it worked out for everyone.

Mills thinks that this story is pathetic - I am pathetic - for consciously flaunting myself as a naive and helpless damsel. I have no such compunction. To (mis)quote a wise ol' friend... sometimes it's handy to play up to the type cast.

"Me, girl, lost" got me to my party much faster than "Me. Woman. Independent." ever would've.
We all know it's true.