The weather has changed again, and yesterday, I had some things to do outside in the courtyard in the afternoon. This, of course, meant spending some time under the bed. That’s where my exclusive collection of summer clothes lives during the winter, away from dust and mould in a suitcase. I never knew I had so many pairs of shorts. I must have done some online shopping late last year and then forgotten about them, but the surprising thing is, the ones I was wearing last year still fit me this year, except, somehow, a couple of pairs have gone the other way, in that they are too big. Usually, the suitcase shrinks things over time, but not in this case. My jubilation was short-lived when I realised that I don’t have any summer shirts, only t-shirts and a couple of unrecognised ones that must have been donated at some point. If that was the case, the donor obviously meant to give them to the chandler as spares for a ship’s mainsail, because one alone could clothe half a rugby team. No idea where they came from, nor what I am going to do with them. Come to that, I’m not sure what I will wear when I can no longer leave the house in a hoodie or jumper because it’s too hot. I think soon, I will have to remind myself what is in the other suitcase, and what I can bring out of retirement from the spare wardrobe.
Of course, we do have some clothes shops on the island, but nothing at prices I can afford, and the days of wearing the latest tourist fashion are, for me, over. I simply don’t function in blue and white, or in t-shirts with my address plastered over them. Our address, according to my recent tax statement, is simply ‘Symi.’ We, like many others, live on a street with no name, and at a house with no number or title, other than that which we have invented for ourselves. I think, on one bill, the address, in translation, is ‘The house of Mrs Lady who died over 15 years ago,’ but at least I have the electricity bill in my name, although that also just says Symi.
The point of this nonsense is to address the thorny issue of having an address, which we do and we don’t. I needed to pay my graphic designer for some work, and she uses a payment thing/card/company that I don’t. Somehow, years ago, I managed to sign up for this payment method or processor, and all was fine until recently, when, for an unknown reason, they wanted me to reregister before I could access my little-used account. This means the proof of address thing has to start again, and who knows how I managed it last time. The utility bills are in Greek (and have no full address), the company wants a house number, but we don’t have one. They want something official, but won’t take things like PayPal account screenshots or other transfer and banking services. My Greek bank doesn’t print my address on the electronic statements, and the alternative there is to go to the bank and get a letter from the manager. The same goes for anything official, it’s either in Greek and the company want Latin characters, or the address is insufficient, being only ‘Symi 85600’, or the address only exists online, and screenshots won’t do. So much for paperless. My pension? Ah, now there, I can help you, except I can’t without having them send me a letter from Ireland or Malta, because my annual correspondence is now out of date (must be within the last six months). Health insurance and house insurance from Generali? In Greek. Anyway…
How I got to that from trousers under the bed, I don’t know, but that’s my early morning state of mind for you. This is just one of the issues when living on Symi permanently, and how others manage it, I don’t know. I am going to try again with my pension as that’s the only thing that has what this payment company want: a typical, normal person’s address of house number, street number and so on. I know I said we don’t have one, and we don’t, but there you go. I am sure all you helpful folk will rush forward with ideas, but I’ll save you the trouble, as I have already tried them or used them. Once, I even went to the mayor, and he signed a piece of paper, the Town Hall staff stamped it 12 times, and even that didn’t satisfy the organisation that wanted me to live at Number 1, Acacia Avenue…. Ah well, life goes on, and at least I am able to post pictures along with these first-thing rambles.
