Since childhood, I’ve often wondered how I ended up in my family. 
I noticed early on that I didn’t fit in and was astonished to realise I had nothing in common with them, apart from the birth thing.
Now, I’m pretty certain I wasn’t adopted. First of all, Greeks aren’t the adopting type; and second, my relatives constantly remind me that I look like and carry not only my paternal grandmother’s name, but also her personality traits. 

“He’s a bit of a tough cookie.”
I ignored the comment and maintained the required silence.
“So what are you writing?”
I shook my head and slid along the wooden bench. I didn’t want the judge castigating me for contempt of court.

“Err… don’t you have any warmer clothes?”
The pair of tourists looked at me in confusion.
“It’s freezing outside,” I said, indicating my coat, boots, scarf and gloves.
“But we only brought summer clothes.” 

“Rural life still good?”
“Rural? You mean beach life?” I responded during a recent online chat. “It’s very laid back.”
Life in Coolum Beach (approx population: 7200) is still leisurely, despite the installation of a third set of traffic lights in town - I’m still getting used to our relatively new roundabout on the main street.

I don’t mind getting my hands dirty. As a teenager I regularly pulled apart my bicycle and changed the seat, handle bars and flat tyres.
These days, I occasionally poke around in the dirt in my few scattered pot plants on the deck; however, kneading a ball of dough into a respectable-looking chapatti is quite a different challenge.
For starters, I'll need a frilly polka dot apron.