Thanks to everyone who sent himself their best wishes. He’s now got the rather medieval name of Neil Blackfoot, though he is again mobile and almost back to being as normal as whatever normal is.

As for today… I need to pop down to town and pick up a delivery from Skroutz, and that seems like the perfect opportunity for a quick lunch somewhere. We may go down by bus, which will probably be a first for me. At least, I can’t remember the last time I took the bus down rather than walk down the steps, so if we do, that will be an adventure in itself. I expect there are still many who remember the old Symi bus, the green transit van which was, for some of its afterlife, parked up by the side of a road (can’t remember where, and I expect there was an earlier version I don’t know about). We’ve had various coloured and sized buses over the years, and as you get older, you rely on them more and more. At this time of year, it does an amazing job running every hour from morning to night with only one hour off; same route, same time, with an excursion up to Leoni for Sevasti Studios and others if you ask nicely. I can’t tell you the times, but there is a timetable at the bus station.

The ‘bus station’ isn’t one of those municipal concrete buildings where the dodgy and bewildered hang around outside the public toilets, but a charming little place near where the Sebeco ties up, now complete with shelter and benches, and with a kiosk nearby. You can also take other buses from there to Panormitis and across the island, and there are now more minibuses on the island than there are mules, I reckon. Several businesses are now running tours and journeys, as well as renting cars and scooters, four-wheeled farm vehicles and electric whatnots. Soon, there will be no more room for any more road vehicles, and we’ll have to have hover-vehicles that fly above the road so they can avoid the congestion. Can you imagine? Driverless, flying taxis and rent-a-hovers getting lost all over the place, ‘dial-a-ride’ Uber hover cycles flying overhead and trying to find a parking spot in the last existing piece of free road on the island. ‘You’re late!’ ‘I know, I had to park at Marathunda and walk back.’

Of course, things will be worse in August when the entitled Scorpioni come to stay in their once-a-year three-bed houses locals can only dream of living in. They’ll bring their latest petrol, diesel, gas, electric, banana skin, whatever-fuelled vehicles and complain that there is nowhere for them to park, and how dare that happen on ‘their’ island? Makes one shudder at where it’s all going and where it will all end up.

Meanwhile, I’ll use Shank’s pony until Shanks won’t have any more of it, and then I will rely on the good old, stalwart Symi bus in whatever manifestation. And, of course, the taxi drivers where we’ve always had a great service and a good old chat about the weather, the roads, and the families as we’re whisked to altitude in style. Today, Blackfoot and I will see which to use after we have had lunch ‘down town,’ as it usually depends on the time. Is it cheaper to wait for the €2.50 bus and have a €4.00 drink while waiting, or spend €6.00 on a taxi to the village? Walking up at one or two in the afternoon in summer is not an option for me these days, it’s a risk. Have a great day, and remember, if you’re driving, don’t forget to take the car.

Weekend events? Rather quiet for me. Well, apart from Friday morning when I was many things. A writer editing a draft MS, then, unexpectedly, a triage nurse, chef, personal shopper, assistant barman, and waiter, because Neil tripped on a pothole and took a purler. Nothing broken, just banged about, and now, a very blue-black ankle and foot, but again mobile and again able to work. And no, this was not a typical tourist tumble fuelled by too much entertainment and not enough attention to detail. It was while taking someone’s rubbish to the bins for them at ten in the morning, and on a familiar route too. Which just goes to prove that although you know what’s around the corner, you never know what’s around the corner. Anyway, all fine now, apart from the colour scheme and bruised ribs, but a message to all to be careful on the flat (as this was), and even more careful on the steps.

It’s not so much that the terrain is dangerous, though it is in places; it is more that the landing pad is made of unrelenting stone, and no matter which way you land, it’s not going to be a soft touchdown. Years ago, not long after moving here, we were chatting to someone who had been here for some years, and we were talking about the dangers of getting home at night through the upper village lanes where, then, the lighting was pretty dismal. Worse, if there was a power cut. This person insisted they had never had a problem moving around at night because they had their ‘Symi night-sight vision.’ In other words, they were used to it. A couple of days later? Same person now with added scrapes, twists and knocks. Luckily, nothing broken and only the myth of ‘Symi night sights’ shattered. So, beware.

In the past, we have known people arrive here for their holiday, only to be sent back to Rhodes the next day to be plastered thanks to being plastered. We’ve met people who have, on declaring themselves in their found paradise, celebrated too much, and then found themselves lost at the bottom of the mousandra steps wondering how they got there. Mind you, we’ve also known people who were so taken with the place, they announced with all certainty that they were going to return and live on Nimos so their children could live wild and drive four-by-fours over that islet for the rest of their lives. (There are no paths, and only one ruined house on Nimos.) Others have declared they are so happy here after two days, they no longer need to take their prescribed medication, and two days after that, having tried to set a campfire in their hotel room. One turned up at the Town Hall expecting to be able to marry the bin man they met that morning. And don’t get me started on the man who bought a horse, rented a farm, and ended up stealing some military laundry and, having abandoned the horse, left the island, only to be discovered in Kos with guns in the back of his car. Long before this, he had gained the title of ‘the twat in a hat.’ We get them all here, but we also get the innocents. Those who, through no fault of their own, take a fall as Neil did, and land on the unforgiving stone in an awkward position, and damage themselves. So, always be cautious. Always go slow, use a torch at night, and be careful. Oh, and better have insurance too, because you never know when a pothole will leap out at you, or a step that you were sure was there will not be there.

And with that Monday morning lesson done with, let’s move on into the week and see what befalls us next.

Yesterday, I popped into town for a dental appointment and nearly came home with a composter. I was minding my own business, waiting to use the ATM, when I noticed activity around a pile of boxes behind a white van on the other side of the road. Now, when I used to live opposite the Waste Market in Dalston (East London), activity around the back of a white van meant something interestingly dodgy was going on. Not so here. On my way back from the dentist, I noticed the action was all still happening at the white van, and was about to politely ignore it (as was safest to do in Dalston) when I bumped into Jenine, who asked me if I wanted a free composter. It turns out that for those who are on the municipal grapevine, read the right Facebook pages, or generally have their ear to the ground more than I do, that there is a scheme afoot to give these things to households for recycling garden and other waste. (The South Aegean Solid Waste Management Agency (FoDSA) is running the initiative.) I wasn’t in a position to take them up on the offer right then and there, and to be frank, we’d never use one, so it would only go to, er, waste.

After that, my day suffered very few highlights, as usual. I think the most extreme thing I did yesterday afternoon was brushing my office carpet – and that’s not a fun job at this time of year. I spent the afternoon reading, and having hot flushes as the humidity was coming in waves; fine one minute, high the next, rinse and repeat, and not even the rumbles of distant thunder in the early evening could calm it down. (No rain, sadly.)

Anyway, I am nearing the end of the final draft before proofing of the 12th book in the third series, and that is my job for the weekend. So, plenty to look forward to, including, I hope, a few more of this kind of pre-dawn scene:

Today will be an in and out day. I shall be in for most of the morning, editing, and then nipping down to the dentist, then home and then staying in, reading. I’d fallen out of the habit of regular reading, so I am giving myself at least one hour a day with a proper book, usually on the balcony during the ‘quietening hour.’ This is the time, from about three o’clock onwards, when the day boats start to leave, and a general feeling of hush falls over the part of the harbour I can see. When the last one leaves sometime after four, there is then the ‘very quiet’ hour, when not much out there moves at all. There’s always an end-of-term feeling to the day down there, an aftershock of relief after another mad day of the nosey and the ecstatic, the bewildered and the frantic. Relief from the crowds who block the roads, follow their guides, do as they’re told and then become completely bewildered as to what to do for the rest of their four hours here. The ecstatic make the most of it in admiration of the sights, the architecture, and the climb to the village, or they enjoy the excitement of a safari made by bus or taxi, while the frantic are another story. They have planned, researched, seen pictures asked questions and know what they are doing: walk to there, quick dip, hurry to there, bus at this time, up to the top, find museum, find museum closed (should have researched more deeply), get out Google Maps to get down to the harbour, get lost, can’t find the cycle way or the two lane highway that Maps say is a road but is in fact 390 steps, but somehow make it back to the boat on time.

All imagined from up here, of course, as I am only going by memories of being down there at that time, but if that’s what is still going on, then I can feel the aftershock of relief from the balcony, and that’s when it’s a good time to read.

Anyway, what is it to be next?

That’s one shelf of the kind of thing I’ve been reading over the past eight years: History, mainly Victorian, and if you look closely, you’ll find some gems. ‘Dying for the Gods’ was particularly hard work, and sorry to say, I’ve forgotten most of it, but then it was specialised (human sacrifice and bog bodies in archaeology as background to a mystery novel). The book, ‘Plaka’, I picked up in a second-hand bookshop in Athens, and it’s all about the history of that part of Athens, with drawings and photos. It’s a Greek publication if anyone is interested in borrowing it. ‘East End 1888’ is particularly fascinating if you are interested in that specific year beyond Jack the Ripper. I’ve just finished, though, Agatha Christie’s autobiography, and I’ve been through all of these on this shelf, so I need to look for something else. That, after having my teeth examined, is this afternoon’s job. I may have to go to the next shelf, where I am once again tempted to read ‘Dracula’ for about the 40th time. Or I may have another bash at the first page of the Poe novel (I’ve never got beyond the first sentence/page – it feels like they are the same thing).

Anwyay, that’s me today. Who knows what tomorrow will be like? That page has not been written yet.

Not much to tell you about apart from my day-to-day, which I won’t bore you with because I didn’t do much yesterday. In fact, I was at home all day writing, reading and doing not much else. Meanwhile, though, Neil photographed this in the square.

They were only a few feet from his workstation table. The other day, I walked past a turtle dove sitting on the ground with one wing out, and I thought it had been damaged. I stood not two feet away from it, and was about to take a photo (which felt like rubber-necking an accident) but it stood up, waddled away and then flew off. Just sunbathing.

Plenty of that to do right now, with the temp a reasonable 28 to 30 in our courtyard shade, not that I do any sunbathing there or anywhere, come to that. Sunbed Wars continue apace on the beaches it seems. ‘Sunbed Wars’ isn’t actually a war as such, but it is an ongoing discussion between tourists and residents alike about the varying cost of a place to lie all greased up and pinking. There seems to be a fashion among the wealthy these days that a) because they are wealthy, only they matter, and b) they’re happy to pay €1,300 a week for a villa holiday because they can, but then get all hot under the Cavalli if a sunbed costs more than they think it should. They are perhaps the sort who revel in the fact that, on some beaches, one pays twice as much for a thing near the water as you do if you take one at the back. Like the age-old snobby thing of how you ‘Took the opera’ last evening, and ‘Of course had a box,’ while the poorer classes sat in the pit happy with their lot. ‘We were so close, when Bartoli gave us her Queen of the Night, some of her spittle actually reached us! Jeremy has not washed since.’ You know, that kind of baloney which angers me, and to which I say, ‘Ms Bartoli would not sing that area, dear, she’s a mezzo. Get your stories right.’

Anyway, no idea what that has to do with sparrows or sunbeds, where, I think the point was that Sunbed Wars rumble on as pointless as a never-ending TV show (The Blacklist, Payton Place, Eastenders), and I shall keep you informed if I hear anything more.