Only the other day I was with a couple of hipster architect girl-friends and this guy and we started talking about cemeteries. There’s this particular cemetery in Athens, where most famous and important people have been buried plus quite a few middle-class nobodies coming from sort of socially respectable athenian families or whatever. As we talked about all those strange statues meaning something to someone at a distressing time in their lives, the kietch temple-looking little houses luxuriously encapsulating the dead and the peace and quiet of a morning walk in the cemetery, one of the girls said “well, you know, I’ll be buried there one day”, “oh, so will I!” I exclaimed excitedly, while the other two were already giving their reasons for being forced to decline this event in a slightly resentful tone. I guess the two of us belonged to those families owing a plain marble box in the coolest cemetery in town… Hurray or something… Well the truth is we were pretty excited, I mean if you were to die and had to have people mourning for you, you would like it to be a sort of cool event, which would give all the sad mourning people something to look at and talk about, whilst sipping a cup of coffee or cognac and enjoying a day dedicated to you having died. To top all this, having an equally deceased friend around, or one who would soon be, seemed like the sort of death that would follow one’s life in Athens. I couldn’t be more thrilled to be honest about how things will be turning out with my final home. However, it is my dying wish that my tombstone should say “Kala Mari – an unemployed single mother” and that everyone should come dressed as hipsters.