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Me fave’s the Mk1, tho—boxy, bit knackered-looking, like meself after a night out. Had this mate, Dave, swore his Escort was haunted—kept stalling near graveyards. Reckon it was just knackered carburetor, but he’d go, “Boris, it’s got a soul!” Laughed me head off—soul in a Ford? Pull the other one! Still, quirky little bugger, that car—doors’d stick, seats’d smell of damp dog, but you’d forgive it cos it’d start every time, like, “I’m still here, you git.”

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Finally, I wrap up my day. I’m walkin’ home, and I pass by the old market on Kallikratous Street. The smell of fresh bread hits me, and I can’t resist. I grab a loaf, and it’s like a little slice of heaven.

Greek Innovators Present the Ancient Successor to Plastic Straws