A dark and stormy moussaka

One evening, many decades ago, the good Greek ship Ellinis was under full sail (poetic ain’t I?), somewhere in the North Atlantic. Most of the souls aboard were young Australians, en route to England to gain a bit of kulcher.

The sea was angry that night my friends – as George Costanza might have said. Storms were creating massive waves, and as the ship had no stabilisers we were rocking and rolling as we sat down to late dinner in the dining saloon.

As guests moodily chewed on yet another plate of moussaka and sipped the odd retsina, a mighty wave struck the port side of the ship. Waiters stumbled, food and crockery crashed to the floor, and one old dear’s seat fell over. She slid on her back towards our table and lay there, apparently unconscious.

Concerned passengers gathered round and the head waiter asked if there were any doctors present. An elderly chap in a suit wandered over, he knelt down and closely examined the patient. Her distraught daughter asked, “Is she still alive?”

The doc replied, “Well, she’s still chewing her moussaka.”

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