Let’s talk about something else this morning and, for now, leave the island’s water issues passing under the bridge. Let’s talk about bare mule cheeks instead.

I would, of course, write ass cheeks, because in some dialects of English and parts of various countries, an ass is an ass, but in its original form, it is an asinus, for those who read Latin or can use a search engine. We tend to call them donkeys, which asses are, but we call them that even when they are mules, which are the combination of part donkey and part horse. Ever wondered how that happens? Don’t.

We used to have lots of donkeys on the island. Well, mules mainly, but having been brought up in a fading Edwardian seaside resort, ‘donkey’ sticks even when it shouldn’t. (Ever tried donkey sticks? Also don’t.) We’ve seen fewer and fewer or them of late. I no longer see them loading up at Kampos, or hear them clomping by the house, there’s no more ‘Oshi! Oshi!’ to be heard from their herders, not in the village at least, and the only time I see one is rarely, and then, only making supermarket deliveries, not carting rocks or tourists’ luggage. Superseded, I guess, by cheap human labour and possibly mopeds and small trucks, now that more of the village has been opened up to narrow vehicles.

Instead, we have the summer asses on show, and you’ll know where this is going, or, at least, returning to. There I was, stirring my frappe with its straw and gazing idly around between kafeneion to see what was what and if anyone was worth ridiculing, when I saw my second ass of the season. It belonged to a young woman of no discernible manners, wearing a belt for a skirt, and in the primeval act of bending provocatively by her company to eject some pheromone his way. Unfortunately, she also sent an anatomy lesson our way, and the lady I was with near took a case of the vapours. I’m afraid I laughed aloud, which was a blessing because behind the laugh, jostling and eager, was a sentence, ‘Put some effing clothes on, you stupid B word.’ That’s an adapted quote from ‘Jerry Springer the Opera’, and people were lucky I didn’t try and sing it. Instead, I bubbled coffee back down the straw, turned green and said to my companion, ‘Isn’t the weather lovely today.’ I think she was still in shock brought on by the gynaecology of the situation, so I was compelled to sing her back to reality with the Waterboy’s classic, ‘(You saw) The whole of the moon,’ only with different spelling.

What is the world coming to, I ask myself, when young ladies feel able to walk about an ancient village underpant-less, and feel safe enough to go near-nude touristing when they feel like it. My Victorian grandmother would have fainted for sure. Maybe not, actually, as she was a Durham miner’s daughter turned Sister Tutor at a major London hospital, and more likely to have gone up to the circus act in question and slapped her about the head and face with her sherry bottle.

Anyway, that should have brought us back to the point of this ramble, but as it didn’t, and as there wasn’t one, I shall leave it there and get on with my day. Have a good one yourself if you will, and if you are leaving the house today, remember to wear your drawers. Please.