Last night, we watched ‘My Big Fat Greek Wedding 3’ and had a few titters at some of the details, a few ‘Ahs’, and a few moments while we waited for something interesting to happen, and ultimately decided we had enjoyed the film.

A strangely satisfying moment came near the beginning, and it followed on from a typical film-making moment. First of all, the family arrived at Athens airport (and it was, unmistakably, Athens airport), walked through the doors and outside, and there, where the Sofitel should be, was a view of the city and the Acropolis. Artistic licence and all that.

A little later, after stopping for a swim to show a) they are on holiday b) and washed clean of the USA by being in the water – some kind of metaphorical baptism I assume and c) a typical Greek summer beach, they board a ferry to ‘the island.’ The ‘ferry’ is little more than a cargo boat, and according to the film’s map, left from somewhere around Sounio. A short while later, for no apparent reason, it sailed past St Evangalismos in Harani, on Symi.

Just out of interest, I turned my head 45 degrees to the right and looked at the same view from the comfort of my own sofa. That was a satisfying experience.

After that, the Neoclassical architecture of Symi we’d just witnessed for 1.5 seconds went out of the window, and we were on Corfu, or in what looked like parts of the Plaka, in Athens. (The film was shot in Athens and Corfu, apparently.) A fun film with a simple pot, though not as much emotional spine as the others because, I think, we know the characters already and they have mostly done their development. Some great observations of Greek life and people though.

That done, I took myself to bed at the usual early hour and was sleeping peacefully, until I wasn’t. I was woken at 1.15 by the sound of rain tapping at my window. Yes, I said rain, not Wayne. (For that gag, see The Golden Girls.) Actually, it wasn’t so much tapping as demanding to be let in, and I realised that every window and door in the house was open, there was a thunderstorm going on, and the PCs and internet were still plugged in. So, that was me up and about, closing this, mopping up that, clearing the leaves off the bathroom roof to free the overflow in my bare feet…

… clearing the leaves off the bathroom roof in my bare feet to free the overflow…

… and just sitting down to a cup of tea when the power went off. It was only down for five minutes, and I raised my teacup to whoever worked through the night at the power station and kept things running.

So, my Thursday has started with a bang, though now, at 2.52, the storm has passed, all is quiet, and all I need do now is make another cup of tea and I can get on with the rest of the day. Well, the next few hours until a siesta kicks in, probably around 9.00 am.

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The Day in the Life of a Symi Resident (with random photos to take your mind from the dreariness of my day).

Yesterday, I managed to get around to doing one of those odd jobs that have been waiting months to be done and yet takes very little time to do, so that was something of a triumph. It was the turn of the balcony floor which has been in need of a new coat of varnish for some time. I wanted to get it done before the next rain comes, and over a week ago, went to the extraordinary lengths of buying a can of varnish and a brush. Having had that on display for a few days, I decided yesterday was the day, and taking my courage in both hands, set about the quest.

Firstly, to sweep the balcony. This involved finding the broom (a surprisingly easy task), and then finding the alternative head with the stiffer bristles; not so easy a task, but I located it beneath the husband’s fins, mask and snorkel, and set about giving the woodwork a stiff telling off. After that, and seeing to some rougher parts with a piece of sandpaper just to teach it a lesson, I thought I should give it a mop. Found the bucket, simple, but then had to track down the bit that attaches so you can squeeze out the mop, which I’ve not used in months. Not because we don’t mop, we are, in fact, a two-mop household and I regularly see to the occasional floor as part of my mid-summer celebration, but these days, I use an alternative, more planet-sustaining method of floor cleaning. I attach a cloth to the Swifter and do the floors with that. Not only does this mean there’s no need to buy disposable, wet and smelly Swifter wipes, but it also means I have a flat-head mop in the good-old-days fashion, and not the straggly bits of a string or cloth that, frankly, seems to achieve nothing. While I was waiting for the balcony to dry, I also had a go at the kitchen floor. Yes, I was that fired up.

Wood dry and gleaming with cleanliness, there then followed the old screwdriver and paint pot lid removal exercise, and after that came the real work. The hands and knees method for a few seconds, followed by a classic older person’s grunt during a change of position; the half-bent back approach which can only be held for 90 seconds before permanent paralysis occurs; the semi-crouch and crab-attack stance was good for another square meter, and then a tea break. Not quite, but might as well have been. Back to the task, carried out without the use of a safety net or dignity, a pause to nod to a couple of passing and bewildered tourists below, and all the time talking to the floorboards for no discernible reason other than a way of keeping sanity, and finally – ’twas done. ’Twas brillig actually. I.e. it was “four o’clock in the afternoon, the time when you begin broiling things for dinner.” Which is the meaning of brillig, according to sources. It was, actually four, but the only thing broiling was me.

Another coat is due on Thursday if I have enough varnish left. The poor old woodwork was so parched it drank nearly the whole can. Being a wise virgin I had bought water-based varnish which may or may not be any good, but at least it was easy to wash out of the brush, and that done, I was able to rejoice in success and take the rest of the day off.

Of course, I’d already done six hours at the typowriter, made lunch, been for a walk, seen to my admin, and read two chapters of a biography of Marie Lloyd. (Real name Matilda Alice Victoria Wood, did you know? Made me wonder…) A quick ice tea at the Rainbow, back home, a salad for tea followed by most of a film, before Neil had to go back to work as he’s currently doing evenings at the Rainbow as well as the siesta shift because it has been so busy, and with no time for a siesta of my own, off to bed at nine.

Now, how’s that for an exciting day in the life of a Symi resident?

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With inspiration at something of a low ebb this morning, I scrolled through my gallery on OneDrive to see what I was up to this time last year, and found a screenshot and two photos that could not have been more different. A picture of the view from just above Nimborio, an image of Romney Marsh (not mine), and a booking for an event in Prague. And who says there’s not much to do on Symi?

The walk to Nimborio is well worth taking if you’ve never done it. My preferred route is to go over the top (and anyone who has met my husband will know what going over the top is all about). Pass the town square taking the main road on the left, and keep going up the slope which can be a bit of a challenge, to the top and then keep going with the church on your left, and you’ll cross a section of countryside with wonderfully rural views. This part gives you an idea of what the island’s hinterland is like should you ever make it over the hills above Horio. The path takes you to above Nimborio Bay, where you follow the old donkey path down to the road, and then follow that around the coast. On the way back, we usually come via the road to get the seascapes and look down onto and through the waters along the rocky shore.

The picture of Romney Marsh has something to do with a book I was working on at the time, the first in a two-part finale to The Larkspur Mysteries, and it shows a dyke (a drainage ditch, worryingly pronounced ‘dick’ in a Marsh accent). I’ve used the area in my Saddling series and used it again for the penultimate novel in the Larkspur series. I was probably using the image this time last year as pre-publicity for the book’s launch.

The third image, a screenshot, is a receipt for an event in Prague, but I can’t remember exactly which one. It might be a lunchtime concert at the Lobkowicz Palace, a riverboat cruise/dinner, or a performance of the Magic Flute at the Estate’s Theatre, all of which happened last April.

None of the above has yet inspired me to get to work on what must be done 365 days later, today: the author’s notes and blurb for the next book in the Delamere Files series of Victorian mysteries. The MS is due with the proofreader at the weekend, and I’d like to get all texts finalised before I send them off. So, that is today’s job, and as time is moving on, so must I.

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