I’m ending the blogging week with ten photos. Having had another early morning thanks to the stuffy, humid, sultry night, my brain’s not completely on form as yet, but it’s five o’clock and I want to get on with the next project. It’s also 30° and 70% humidity, and the streetlight outside the house has died, so there’s a better view of the stars. Things to look forward to today? Hearing what my tax bill will be, investigating why we have to pay €70 because of the change in Greek law that means same-sex couples can now marry rather than simply have a cohab agreement, which is what we have, and thanks to the new law, we’ve now got to pay for…? What? An upgrade? I have no idea, so we’ll investigate that with KEP at some point, or Neil might do it today after he’s been for a swim. It’s too early in the morning to put my mind to all that. Let’s have those images instead, and take the rest of the week off.
Ps. There are now 11 photos, becasue I added a chicken.
Another mixed bag of oddments for you today. Let’s start with some words I was forbidden from using yesterday:
Stooge.
Acerbic.
Claustrophobic.
Why, you ask, was I banned? Because I was putting together a chapter set in 1893, and because I am developing a sixth sense about these things. When I started on my first Victorian Mystery book, it was set in 1888, and I intended it to be in a kind of parallel universe, which is why I called Whitechapel ‘Greychurch’ and so on, and why I had characters using words like ‘Okay.’ Well, I soon discovered I wasn’t writing a standalone book, ‘Deviant Desire’, I was writing an ongoing series, and I’d better do more research than the books about Jack the Ripper I’d read. While doing so, I realised that ‘Okay’ didn’t come into popular English usage until around the 1950s, certainly not in print. By this time, I was on book four, I think, so I went back over all books in the series and took out/replaced words I shouldn’t have been using because the characters wouldn’t know them, among them were: acidic, teenager, adolescent, and homosexual. These days, I’ll be merrily writing along when I trip over a word, such as I did yesterday with ‘claustrophobia’ and I think, ‘I’d better check that,’ so I do, and there you go. Not allowed.
All this was after I’d been for a walk around the village for a mile which I did not long after sunup because it was or felt cooler than of late. That’s when today’s images were taken.
There’s a goat there somewhere
Sometimes, it’s hard to write about a snow-filled night in the alleys of Whitechapel in 1893 when it’s 35 degrees outside, and you’re living in the lap of relative luxury. But the sight of other people’s misfortunes helps with perspective. I’ve been noticing more and more refugees/immigrants over the past few months; they are sat in lines, some handcuffed, I’ve been told, in the Schengen area by the clock tower and there, they wait for the Dodecanese catamaran to take them on to wherever. I’m sure the problem wasn’t as bad this time last year, and it’s been growing more pressing in recent months. It seems it’s even reached the point of the people traffickers bringing them over in broad daylight, but dressed as tourists. I was also told that we’d lost our Frontex boats, and that, I imagine plays a big part in opening up the seas for these unscrupulous people shifters. It’s this immigration that’s sending Europe to the far right, and before long, countries will only be interested in helping themselves, and not their neighbours. One of the short stories in my short book, 1892 takes that theme, and it’s a very worrying one.
And breathe
Still, that aside (because the problem is way beyond me to sort out, I still can’t even vote – I mean, I could have done in the recent UK election had my papers not arrived a week after the event), let’s pretend it’s not happening, that you know who won’t soon be back in office and caring only for the white folk of America and all that, and put our minds to having a good old jolly Thursday. This image might smooth the savage whatever:
If you were wondering, by the way, here’s what I discovered:
Stooge. 1920s
Acerbic. 1950s
Claustrophobic. 1940
(Approximate dates – and first appeared in print. They were probably in spoken use a little while before.)
Today, I’m turning away from the ongoing debate about the cost of sunbeds, Greek salads and holidays. I’m not paying any heed to the debate about whether the island is pricing itself too far to the rich right and losing the loyalty of its regulars who, one might say, are from the economic left (of an imaginary scale). I am not getting involved in the worrying thought that there will soon be no properties for locals to rent, and the rising cost of those that are available. Trying not to think that our 21-year-old godson has to pay more for a bedsit in Harani than we’ve ever paid for a house with extra rooms in the village. I am not taking any notice of all of that, except I just have, so now I’m moving on to something else, and I have another question for you.
Does anyone have a map of the London sewer system circa 1892. I know it’s a bit odd, isn’t it? But I’d be fascinated because I am working on a story which involves just that system, and I’d like to know more. I’ve been wading through old newspapers and a collection of writings, but haven’t yet found a map.
Completely unrelated to that, I have some random photos of cats for you. I was going to take a walk yesterday morning and take some more, I was up in time. Well, I woke up at two, three, six minutes past four and finally, five to five, but when the dawn started, it was already over 30 degrees and 60% humidity, and I was a bit dopey. That, I can put down to the antihistamine I had to take before bed because I’d become a mosquito’s pin cushion, and I have almost run out of haemorrhoid cream. (See earlier posts; it’s a cure for itchy red swellings, i.e. mosquito bites.)
Before bed, we’d watched Titanic again as it had just come on Netflix. There are a few blunders in there which you can look out for on your next time around. There’s a classic continuity oops when Rose breaks the glass for the fire axe. Clearly, the smashing of the sugar glass and her taking the axe were shot at different times, because the formation of the broken glass is different in each shot. I expect there are others, but I’m not decrying the film. It’s still moving (not him dying, that was inevitable, but the general loss of life), and it’s still big, dramatic, sumptuous and a good way to kill three and a quarter hours. If only it could also kill mosquitoes.
(Rhodes)
Right! I must get back to 1893 and the London sewers, the works of Maskelyne and Cooke’s home of mystery, and vanishing acts generally.
When I’m writing, I keep a notebook beside me, and some scraps of paper, and I also make footnotes in the MS to remind me of important plot points and items for my author’s notes. Right now, beside me, I have a scrap of paper that reads, “Razor/end of chapter. Will + Jack tied up. (Facebook reel.)” Any ideas?
Ah well, it’ll come back to me.
Sunday evening – godson’s 21st birthday, lots of hugs, cards, gifts, good food, laughs, and generally had a good time.
On a video call to Tina, the fairy godmother.
Then, we sat outside Rainbow and chatted, aware there was something going on inside, and a lot of people around us cheering for one side or the other. It’s funny because the televisions in Rainbow are somehow a few seconds ahead of the television at Lefteris’, so we get to see things before they do. I succumbed to temptation at one point and gave a roar of ‘Yes!’ just to heighten the tension for those watching next door. Well, it amused me more than 90 minutes of men trying to get something home that they’ve been trying to get home for e-ver, and have only succeeded in making fools of themselves. Seems the only way that country can get that thing home is to let the ladies do it, but when that happened, where was all the macho ‘It’s come home’ crepe? Still, that’ll be the end of football watching for the season, right?
What? I thought it was endless hours of cricket in the summer and football only in the winter? Wrestling was all year round, as was horse racing, and there used to be something about summer sports and winter sports – tennis and Pimms, rugby and hot chocolate… No? Oh well. Have a random photo of the book I’m reading instead.
Oh, it came back to me! If you should ever find yourself tied up in a particular way, you can get yourself out of a seemingly impossible knot. That is, as long as you have read and remembered, ‘Magic: Stage Illusions and Scientific Diversions Including Trick Photography’ published by Samson Low, Marston and Company in 1897. Make a note.
Sunday afternoon. Hot again, cicadas nearby, boats far away, fans turning, time passing, and people on social media discussing the prices of everything on Symi. Is the island going too far towards the expensive end of the market, and are people being greedy? That’s countered with the cost of living generally and more so here where everything has to come in by boat, and conversations about how it’s possible to spend a day here without spending a fortune. Free beaches if you bring your own shade, cheap food if you eat giros etc, and cheaper accommodation if you shop around.
Also, the scenery is free.
It’s the accommodation situation, and to my mind, there may be an element of greed involved. As you may know, we may have to move house, next month, next year or never; it depends on the outcome of our late landlord’s probate. What worries me about this is being able to find somewhere that’s a decent size and affordable. Since moving here 22 years ago, we’ve lived in three rented houses, each of them being Symi-unusual because they have had at least one extra room. Our rent has always been affordable too. What’s unsettling for me (and many local people, especially younger ones) is to see the number of properties being converted to Airbnb. I’ve never understood how it makes sense to spend a tidy sum converting a place, only to rent it out for a few weeks of the year. Gambling on getting the custom isn’t the only headache. I had a quick look at the regulations, and I never want to see them again. Tax liability, health and safety, STR regulations, permissions, personal liability, insurance, EU directive 2021/514, data-sharing rules, VAT, Article 111 of Law 4446/2016… [Shudders]
There’s another downside besides us possibly not being able to find or afford a long-term rental should we need to. I was recently talking with a visitor who’d booked an Airbnb, had been there for a couple of weeks and had had no cleaning, no change of bedding, no contact from the owners, and so on. The visitor was one who ‘didn’t want to make a fuss’ and I bet there are more who have chosen to put up with a similar shoddy service.
Anyway… Hopefully, we will hear from our man in Rhodes in due course and we’ll either be able to stay, or we won’t. Either way, he’ll tell us what’s what and give us time to search should we ever need to move. If there are any long-term rentals left to move to by then.
I love this door, though I’ve never got around to working out what it says, apart from ‘Elpida’, hope.
As for my weekend, it started with a godson and later today (Sunday) it will end with another one. Harry and I went to Yialos on Friday so he could buy his big brother something for his birthday. The trip included lunch at Meraklis and a beer at Agialos, a photo of which caused some matrons to cluck that he’s not old enough to drink. Well, you know, if you’re old enough to play Beethoven, look after your home, and work sixty hours a week in service, then you’re old enough to make up your own mind. Neil collected a copy of my godfather’s biography what I wrote, and it’s come just in time. I dedicated it to my nephew and my two godsons, so I can give a copy to the oldest at his birthday dinner tonight. After that, unless something tempts me, I shall be coming home while Neil works helping Yiannis at the bar during the dance competition and hospital tag which is a football match.
