I think we might be returning to ‘normal service’, as far as the weather is concerned. The wind was still from the northwest yesterday, but this morning, it has died down and should be breezing from the west and dropping, with the temperature rising steadily to reach the 20° mark at the weekend. Gawd. I sound like the shipping news. That’s probably because it’s all I have today; no satirical waffling, not even after a day at home completing chapter 21 of a new first draft. You know, you pick up a lot of odd facts when researching for a novel set in the past. At least, you do if you stop every few minutes to check a fact or if a word was in existence by then.

I am currently in 1894, a fascinating time for all kinds of inventions. Did you know, for example, that pinking shears were invented in 1893 (in America), the Kellogg brothers were still only developing cornflakes, and there were over 11,000 hansom cabs in London, plus all the other carriages, carts and horse-drawn vehicles leading to a massive ‘Farage’ problem on the streets? Not only were Kellogg’s developing cornflakes, but they were also coming out with the first intercom system. I suppose they go hand in hand. When the lord of the manor wanted his breakfast in 1893, not only could he not have cornflakes, but he couldn’t buzz downstairs for the maid to bring them up. Mind you, if he were that posh, he wouldn’t have had a maid to serve him, but a footman. (Not common for grand houses to have maids serve upstairs until the early 20th century.) No such luxury here. Although cornflakes are one of the still affordable breakfast items available in the supermarkets, and we do have mobile phones instead of intercommunication devices.

As for the day ahead, I intend to pop into the town hall to ask about our water supply, and we’re meeting friends for lunch in Yialos. There should be more visiting boats today. We’ve only had the Panagia for the last two days because of the wind, but the Express came through yesterday, which is a hopeful sign that shipping is returning to normal. I was chatting with Harry over the weekend. He’s working in a hotel along the coast in Rhodes, and had just done his ‘lifeguard’ training. I had to wonder why that was necessary for a station-head in a restaurant, but he meant CPR, which is more reassuring. It’s such a big place that for a waiter to reach an incident in one of the pools would be a 200-yard dash. ‘That’s two beef stiffados, one chicken with lemon, and… Oh, one moment, luv…’ (Time passes. Waiter returns dripping…) ‘And a freshly caught cod.’ You’d have thought they’d have someone nearer, and they have, apparently. Good to know the hotel is doing it right and teaching its staff CPR and other ‘hopefully never needed’ skills in preparation for when customers see the price of a gin and tonic.

We shan’t get started on prices, because there’s nothing we can do about the rising cost of living, particularly on imported goods, which, on an island, is just about everything. If Sotiris’ chickens aren’t laying, we have to buy the off-island eggs, and not only are they not as good, but they also cost a bit more. We have a philosophy of ‘If we need it and can afford it, we’ll buy it. If we want it and can’t afford it, we still buy it, we don’t. Sadly, for many items, it is cheaper to order them from Athens and have them delivered; not the basics, but other things like electrolytes for the summer months, but that’s just the way it is.

Anyway, the images today are to show the rapidly changing colours of the island at this time of year; the contrast between the grey skies of late and the blooming plants.

The last time we were together on this page, it was May 1st, and Greece was having its coldest Mayday on record. We’re still under the tail end of some winds strong enough to ban shipping, and I can’t help wondering if this storm has a name.

Then, I can’t help also wondering why storms have names these days? Perhaps it’s to help us remember what is battering the roof, rattling the shutters and driving rain under our doors.
‘What is that noise?’
‘Why, don’t you remember, love? That’s Boukephalas.’
‘I thought you had tablets for that.’

Maybe it’s so the howling winds sound more cosy as they rip scaffolding from buildings, and tear up trees.
‘Oh, bless. Saoirse has come to stay for the weekend. I’ll just pop out and say hello.’

I tell you what, Toto, we’ve not been in Kansas this weekend. The sea’s been grey and white, the heater has been back on (for a measured one hour, or as we like to call it, €15.00’s worth), and my first job this morning was to stick my head out of the window and find the heavy rocks that usually hold the shutters open. Very unseasonal, but when we as a species are intent on ruining our planet to keep ourselves in riches, luxury and ‘celebrity’ TV, what do we expect?

Talking of celebrity TV, we watched Gogglebox on YouTube on Saturday night because we know how to live, and I couldn’t help thinking, if this is the height of civilisation, it’s no wonder we’re a dying breed. Not that programme itself, for there is nothing wrong with watching people watch TV (ahem), but all these cheap ‘celebrity’ programmes which I might find more amusing if I had a bleedin’ clue who anyone was. It seems these days, all you have to do to win hallowed celebrity status is to appear on a naff sofa in a TV studio at seven in the morning and talk about how you once baked the largest barn cake in Sniffersdale. Bang! There you are appearing on ‘I’m a Celebrity – Someone Please Notice Me’ (jungle edition), or ‘Mystery Celebrity Soprano’, where you prove your worth by debasing yourself in a gorilla costume and where the only mystery is why? Or even on more worthy attempts at making money from a sow’s ear, shows like ‘Strictly Pointless’ or ‘The Great British Jerk Off.’  Has the world not learnt that when you award celebrity status to the hopelessly narcissistic, they end up being elected to run important countries? And look where that’s got the world.

Anyway…

It’s a stormy May morning here on Symi, where the contents of the courtyard have now blown into the porch, and where there may or may not be boats sailing today. (The Poseidon was due to do its first day trip about now, but I am not sure of the current situation there.) Yes, the temperature has dropped a little (13° today), but it is set to rise again by Wednesday (19°), and onwards and upwards to over 20° by this time next week.

Having spent the weekend finishing painting up an old chest of drawers for the kitchen, and spring cleaning the bedroom, I locked myself in the sitting room on Sunday afternoon with a god old comedy thriller, The Old Dark House, 1963, Robert Morely, Joyce Grenfell and Fenella Fielding, and fell asleep halfway through. Perfect. Today, if this wintery weather persists, I might do something with Farley Granger – Ooh, Matron!
But now, I can put off chapter 21 no longer, and so, must return to work. All I can sensibly add to this Monday morning wash-out of my brain, is that if you are coming to Symi over the next few days, fabulous! Can’t wait to see you, but check that the boat you need will be able to sail.

There was another cruise ship in yesterday, smaller this time, and, by the looks, more exclusive. I watched it sending its tenders back and forth throughout the day, except for when I was varnishing furniture and painting a chest of drawers in the courtyard and the upturned kitchen, where everything is out of said drawers and piled on the table. Deserving of a break in the afternoon, I called down to the bar to find it doing rather well with locals and visitors alike, and there, I witnessed the classic, happy tourist behaviour we’ve come to know and love. Not.

A couple sits down and asks for a menu. Menu provided. After a few minutes of deliberation, they ask for mineral water (€0.50), and are asked, with or without gas? What? Repeat: With or without gas. Sparkling? I want this one. Pointing to where it says Aνθρακούχο, ‘sparkling mineral water,’ in both languages, even his own. He repeats for clarity, because the servant is not English. This one, and off goes the host to return with two bottles of sparkling mineral water (€2.50 each). Puts them down, toddles away.

Mrs and Mrs Armitage-Shanks dive merrily into their chosen drinks, speaking not a word to each other as a small part of the afternoon passes by, and then, when ready, ask for the bill. Which they then dispute, because, allegedly, they asked for still water (€.50) and they don’t want to pay the €5.00 bill for what they not only asked for, but also drank – not queried or returned, but drank. Naturally, there is some debate, the upshot of which is that Mr Armitage-Shanks flatly refuses to pay the bill, using, I suspect, that British attitude of brick-wall outrage that he could possibly be in the wrong. He was, and I’d be happy to take the stand.

It does rather make one’s blood boil when you witness stubborn, and dare I say, ignorant privilege come up against gentle Greek hospitality, especially when we are talking of €4.00. Mr Armitage-Shanks isn’t having it, though. Oh no, he expounds. We fought them on the beaches when they came ashore, and I’m out there every night with my searchlights looking for small boats, so I’ve done my bit for the invasion effort, and Johnny Foreigner no longer matters because without the Eastbourne Conservative/Reform Club, we’d all be speaking humanity and reason nonsense, and it’s high time they brought back the lunchtime entertainment at Tyburn. (All in one breath of exasperation, note.)

Of course, gentle Greek hospitality and ξενοφιλία (the appreciation of foreign people) mean nothing to Armitage-Shanks and his ilk; the Duravits from Twyford, and Miss Pyramid from number twenty-six are worse. He’s off, dragging the little woman behind, and basking in the glory of having got away with paying €1.00 for €5.00 worth of drinks.

Needless to say, I hurled some choice Anglo Saxon down the Kali Strata after them, but sadly, that’s water of a duck’s arse to the smug, and my Þū unsǣlīġe ǣrs! went unheard. Probably too busy gloating and agreeing, ‘That showed them, eh? Telling me I was wrong. Water is water…’ I expect they went muttering with glee all the way back to the harbour, and round to the tender, and back across the sea to their cruise ship. Or, maybe, to their own boat, or even to catch their day-trip ferry back to another island. To be on Symi means you have either swum very hard or spent money on a flight and a boat ticket, and what with criminals now running the world and the price of oil what it is, and thus, the price of flights what they are, to fuss over €4.00 while on a holiday millions cannot afford nor will ever know… Well, it says to me that someone’s either very twisted or very upset that the little woman dragged him away from his Sunday Sport and meat pies to try some of that foreign muck. Water with bubbles in it? Not seen that since bathtime at Dotheboys Hall.

What an utter niþing. (Excuse my Anglo-Saxon.)
Because you are in no way a gloating greed like Mr Armitage-Shanks, I will leave you with this lovely photo Neil took recently.
And breathe.

They say you never know what’s around the corner, and that’s certainly true here. You might think you know that when you pop out to the shops, spend your life savings and then head home, that as you round the corner, you’ll see the lane and the front gates, and thankfully, you do, but then, you also find the most unexpected things turning up. Last night, it was a set of shelves for the bathroom, the other day, it was this cheerful chappie.

When out for a walk, you can always find something discarded accidentally or on purpose, and single gloves appear to be popular. As our dustbin trucks take their collections up the hill and over the hill and around several next corners to the dump, things sometimes drop off the back, or are blown off. Anything substantial, and the guys pick it up on the way back, but transportation accounts for some of the whatnots you find by the main road. I think one of the most surprising things I’ve seen was a dead frog, completely ironed out and long gone to the great lily pad in the sky. The fact there was no fresh water for several miles might have had something to do with its condition, poor thing. I mean, a frog?

Not as surprising as an alien thing growing from a wall, I suppose:

Anyway… What was I going to say? Nothing of any consequence, I’m sure… We had another cruise ship in yesterday, and briefly met some of the crew who came up to the bar on a recommendation. They were a fun group grabbing a few free hours away from their passengers. I’ve not been down town for a while, so I can’t comment on how busy that may or may not be, but I have seen the day boats coming and going, and have spotted a few visitors on the lane during the mornings. The weather is heating up (24° in the courtyard yesterday), and the sun’s out. I have the rest of the chest of drawers to paint and varnish later, and now, possibly the nomadic cabinet things for the bathroom. That was, actually, expected. It’s come from Harry’s room now he’s moved out to Rhodes, and will replace the table we had in the bathroom, which is now in the courtyard, and has been temporarily replaced by the old TV stand, which we have promised to Sam, if he ever has a minute to come and pick it up, along with the TV that goes on top of it. Maybe that will finally be today because, as they say, you never know what’s around the corner.

Penny asked me the other day, ‘What’s happened to Roger?’
Roger, you may remember, is a young rock lizard living under our sofa, except now, he’s not. At least, I don’t think so. He appeared on the day we were first able to leave the front window and door open, when the weather had turned a little warmer, so I assume he wandered in, with his little rucksack on his back, and found a lovely collection of warm dust to snuggle into beneath the sofa where the vacuum cleaner can’t reach and where we rarely dare to venture. He spent a few days gathering mosquitoes about the room, inspecting behind my old trunk, behind the TV, and even exploring the kitchen. Now and then, he’d waddle across the carpet towards us, look up and around, and decide against conversation before waddling back to his home. His temporary home, because we haven’t seen him for about a week now. He’s either under the sofa sitting on eggs, or whatever they do, or has waddled four-footedly back outside into the, now, even warmer climate.

Wherever he had gone, I hope his stay hasn’t put us foul of these new temporary-letting rules, which I’ve heard about but, I am reassured, do not concern us. Electrical certificates, the number of days per year you’re legally allowed to Airbnb for (and who knows how many illegal days the personal touch leads to thereafter), and other restrictions intended to help long-term renters and first-time buyers alike. Anyone trying to find a sensibly priced long let on the island these days faces a lot of uncertainty, an uphill battle, and a greedy rent, from what I have heard. But at least Roger won’t have that to worry about as he finds a nearby rock to call home. We often see his clan from the balcony. There was one that used to compete in parkour events (solo) along the parapet of the house below, and another, larger, who used to guard the rocks covering our cat’s burial cist on the wasteland next door.

They are not the only wildlife we get to see. The swallows are back right now, as are some other migrating birds. We’ve had a pair of collared doves here for so many years they must be different pairs, but who can tell? There’s the little owl that sits on another nearby house and uses our balcony rail to watch from. Bats occasionally do a fly past as nothing more than quick, dark shadows against the night, and we’ve had a chicken raise her chicks in the inaccessible ruined garden beside the wasteland. Then, of course, there are the cats. Skulking, as they do, sleeping everywhere and anywhere, ditto digging for relief. Most of the time, though, they are hunting for something else and pass by wailing for a shag like teenage tourists in Ibiza.

As for insects and the like, yes, we have had to humanely remove Symi spiders to someone else’s property under the cover of darkness. (Only kidding, Louise.) The cockroaches (all called either Nigel or Donald) are more pesterous than lost tourists, but thankfully, less common, and they react less violently when sprayed with Teza or Raid. All manner of cute little flying things inhabit the courtyard. Although we have to dispense with the blackfly, we don’t mind the beetles, crickets or other well-known musical combos who play there, but the Ottoman viper was soon ejected. Don’t get me started on the flies. Inside the house, we have taken precautions against mosquitoes by rejuvenating the plug-in thing and keeping the hatch to the broken and now stagnant sterna closed against whatever is living down there. More roaches, probably; Linus, William, his son, James, et al.

But there we are, and here I am about to launch into chapter 18 of the next first draft, which means, it’s now time for me to bug off.

By the way, these are older, random photos because I just accidentally deleted my blog photos file, and am having to download them again from OneDrive, which will take days because that thing is so slow to do as it is told.