Let’s all go down the steps, ‘ave-an-acado

Let’s start the week off with a little story. I was heading down the steps to Yialos on Friday when I saw a lady crossing from one side to the other. Nothing surprising there. Said lady, however, was in her night clothes, with an anorak over the top, and carrying a basket of herbs. This was around eleven, so I assume she is a late riser. It’s not uncommon to see local people popping to the shop in their slippers during the winter, I mean, why bother getting glammed up when you’re only around the corner? No one is going to judge. I thought to myself, ‘Ah, she’s setting up her herbs as the day boat had just arrived.’ Indeed, she was. I approached and wished her a kali-morning. In return, she asked me to carry a couple of baskets across the steps for her while she made herself comfortable outside the old Symi Gallery. Or as comfortable as one can be in a nightdress on a blustery, rather cloudy morning in April.

I did my duty, wondering if this would make me an accessory before some kind of fact (I assume she has a street licence for her little enterprise), and went on my way.

‘Mister!’

I must admit to having a mild sinking feeling as I was hailed. I’ve seen what happens to the unwary who engage in conversation here, but I turned and replied, trying to hide the mistrust in my voice. It didn’t help that she was rummaging in a blue plastic bag. I didn’t need €5.00 worth of wild oregano. If I did, I could have picked some from the lane up the road. But no, she offered me a biscuit for my trouble. I accepted and, duly paid, set off, munching on my way. I assume she dressed at some time during the day otherwise those heading up the steps might have been treated (or not) to something rather surprising.

If you’re still wondering about the title of today’s post, I had a song in my head as I carried on down the Kali Strata, ‘Let’s all go down the Strand,’ that wonderfully pointless number sung by Stanley Holloway, and others. Apparently, you don’t have to have a banana as you do so as that was never part of the original lyric. So, I often throw in another random foodstuff as I go. ‘Let’s all go down the Strand, have a moussaka!’ is probably the most appropriate. On this day it was an avocado, for no discernible reason, and so it became, ‘Let’s all go down the Strand, ‘ave-an-acado!’

You’re going not have that song stuck in your head all day now, aren’t you? Sorry about that. If you’re not, then click here and hear a recording of it. You can add your own fruit.

I only mention that as that was about the most unusual thing I did over the weekend. Oh, I did arrange a mock O-level exam for Neil, read and advise on a short story for a young man from India, and start on a new book, but otherwise, it was a quiet weekend with dinner at the taverna in the evening on Saturday. It is now Sunday as I prepare this post for tomorrow, write a short report on the short story for said young man in India, reply to a couple of emails and then ‘mark’ the mock exam. After that and some vague attempt at housework, it’s going to be back to the new book idea, a farce this time, a kind of ‘Remotely’ follow on, but not. It’s going to be another Miss P story and anyone who had read ‘Remotely‘ will know who I am talking about. Anyone who hasn’t read it yet (shame on you) can find a copy on Amazon, in print and in Kindle format.

And now I am off to attend to my other duties and will wish you a good week to come. I may even have a banana.

The fall of the machine

Picture it: I’m sitting on the sofa reading a very entertaining book about Andrew Lloyd Webber (don’t ask) when all of a sudden I become aware that a heavy truck is passing by the house. ‘Must be a concert mixer lorry,’ I think. A little while later I realise that the road outside our house is too narrow for such a vehicle. ‘Must be Lefteris and his dumper truck.’ I consider this idea as it’s more entertaining the Lord Lloyd Webber, and then wonder why Lefteris has stopped his truck right outside our door and isn’t moving on. ‘Perhaps he is delivering something over the road,’ I think. After a few minutes, I come to realise that the sound is actually coming from within the house and I pop into the laundry room to see where the earth trembling noise is coming from.

I find Neil there, interrupted from his revision by the sound. We both look at the washing machine and then shout across to each other, ‘It’s the washing machine!’

‘What?’

‘I said…’

But we leave it alone as it’s not actually smoking or steaming or moving around the room, but it is being worryingly loud. I realise later that we have just witnessed its final final rinse and spin. Something’s gone for good, and €300.00 worth of machine is finally cycling itself off to washing machine heaven. Mind you, it was 13 years old, so you can’t complain. It had a good run, and it was a Greek make Pitsos, so bravo to them for building such a reliable home appliance.

This meant that we then had to buy another one and, with some advice from the lady who knows about such things, Jenine Olive Tree, I ordered one from the Greek equivalent of Dixons, online, for €250.00. That miffed her a bit as she only recently bought exactly the same model for a little bit more; ours was now in a sale and also comes with free delivery. When that will be is another matter and, in the meantime, there’s the old one to get rid of. An email to the Dimos will let me know how this should be done, we’re not going down the ‘dump it over a cliff’ route. Meanwhile, there’s still the washing to do.

Which is how I found myself at the laundry sink on a blowy Thursday morning. Luckily, mother had left some handy hand wash behind when she left last year, so I was able to use that. There’s something very therapeutic about manually washing t-shirts and under-things; it gives you time to think. Mind you, I did have ‘Welcome to the Machine’ going around in my head like a tumble dryer for half an hour as I washed and wrung, agitated clothes (by talking about Brexit), rinsed and wrung again, and hung out the essentials. The pile went down quite quickly until Neil came home from his aerobics and gym session and dumped his gym clothes on it. There’s still a lot to do, but plenty of time as we’re not expecting the new machine for a couple of weeks.

Meanwhile (again), the wind was up, and the sea was choppy, choppier than it looks in the quick snaps I took for today’s blog, so the washing has to dry inside. Poor old Jack is weathering the warm wind, though, and has taken up his usual place on his bench outside in the courtyard. He was sick overnight on Wednesday and had also cut his ear again, so he wasn’t in the best of moods. I’ve seen him drinking lots of water and eating only a little, so at least he’s doing that. We’re keeping an eye on him as we eagerly await the outcome of my first hand wash in 14 years. Will it be scented with the aroma of spring flowers from an Alpine valley? Or will it smell like it did when it went in the bowl? Oh, I can’t wait.

By the way, there’s a post coming up tomorrow, for the weekend, about the work of one of the charities that’s currently operating to help refugees and others on Symi, and other islands. Make sure you tune in to check it out.

The Times, 1963 and today

Just a quick ramble as I’ve been distracted by a newspaper. No, nothing to do with the shenanigans of the UK ruling leader, though I did just overhear the interviewer on the BBC ask a Tory, ‘Why can’t you just be honest?’ And that made me cheer her on – the interviewer I mean. No, the newspaper is a birthday present from Neil, a copy of The Times from my day of birth back in 19-something. What amazed me about this was the amount of type and thus typesetting that must have been done for each day’s publication. There are some photos later on, but the front looks like the old fashioned papers you see in period dramas, all small print on the front which announcements of birth, deaths and marriages. (Didn’t see my birth there.)

What also got me hooked was on page three and no, this is The Times 1963, so it’s not that kind of page three, but the headline of a story: ‘Woman attacked by grey squirrel.‘ If that was a headline now, I am pretty sure someone in the current Westminster administration would immediately ban grey squirrels on health and safety grounds. Meanwhile, other parties would call for them to be barred from entering the country, others would rise up to protect them (but not actually say so for fear of losing their seats in the House) while a certain party leader would say that he was going to make sure they got equal pay, decent housing, and were to be nationalised, as that’s what people want to hear today. Over the water, a certain American maniac with a personality disorder would grab hold of the animal, realise it wasn’t a defenceless woman, let it go and deny having ever touched it. Further south, someone would shoot a ballistic missile at the poor creature and go back to greasing his hair.

Honestly, I despair of politicians these days, more so than ever, so I am trying to train myself to have nothing to do with it all – apart from voting in this election that she promised was never going to happen (until it suited Ms Mayhem), via my postal vote, and local mayoral elections here on Symi, as I can, plus the European Parliament ones when they happen. Meanwhile, I’m going to go back to the kitchen, stir the vegetable curry I am making, and read on to page four of The Times before copying out its crossword, so I don’t have to write on the paper, and I can say that I have completed The Times crossword from the day of my birth.

That’s it. I’ll let you get on now – hope you enjoyed the random photos today.

Heaven by Anne Butler Rowlands

In a minute I want to tell you about a new book, written by a friend of mine, but first: There’s a great sense of calm now that Easter had finished. Mind you, I did hear a couple more dynamite explosions on Tuesday morning. I woke up thinking it was Wednesday and wondered why the Blue Star had not been in. I also wondered if I should put the water on to top up the sterna, and then I remembered it was Tuesday. That’s what long weekends do to you, I guess.

The fridge is still teaming with leftovers and a couple of non-eaten puddings, some biscuits from Katarina and some other goodies brought by friends, or given as presents. The rest of my olive bread went to the bar with Neil on Monday and was seen to by people there, we still have half a cheesecake to think about, and the last of the lamb stew should do for today. After that, it’s back to the usual routine and less cooking. We did quite well on Easter Sunday with bread, cheesecake, chocolate mousse, angel cakes and a full roast. We had lunch at around two, and I didn’t need to eat again until Monday lunchtime. There are still chocolates and a few Kinder eggs to get through. Anyway…

And now, the book  ‘Heaven’, by regular Symi visitor Anne Butler Rowlands.

‘Heaven’, by Anne Butler Rowlands is described as: “‘Kapotheni’ has transformed itself from a ruined island into a playground for tourists. These eighteen linked stories highlight the funny, the tragic, the sinister, and the erotic aspects of the lives of the increasing crowds of middle-aged travellers and settlers, as they encounter the culture of a small Aegean community. In an exploration of the ways in which affection, love and lust forge links between diverse people, the light and dark aspects of sexuality thread through these stories, behind which lies the island, where the local community welcomes in the exhausted, the disillusioned, the sad and the lonely, giving warmth and hope to those who take the risk of meeting the new and the strange.”

And, described by me on the back cover as: “‘An idyllic island, glittering seas, blue skies, devious deeds…the stories are told with heart-piercing truth. Each one is a star in a deliciously dark firmament. Heaven is not just for the righteous.’ James Collins author of Remotely and The Judas Inheritance.”

And why am I pointing this out? Well, it won’t take a great leap to work out where ‘Kapotheni’ actually is. Regular visitors to Symi might even recognise some places, and possibly even some of the local characters. I’m not going to say too much more right now, but if you want to add another Symi inspired book to your collection, then click here for the Kindle or print version of ‘Heaven’, by regular Symi visitor Anne Butler Rowlands.

Back to the blog

And we’re back to normal, or what constitutes normal around here. Easter has come and gone, and so have my few days off. It’s actually Monday today, as I’m writing, so I am back to getting blog posts ready the day before I publish them; back into the old routine. I’ve got a few photos I took over the weekend, Saturday in Yialos, the calm sea on two mornings, one misty one clearer, lots of food and some fireworks on Sunday (those photos coming soon).

I managed to sleep through the Saturday night celebrations and dynamite, there was quite a lot of it apparently. I heard the bangs on Sunday night, right up until around half two in the morning, as I couldn’t sleep. Maybe too much chocolate mousse. There was a great firework display from the Town Hall on Sunday, plus their annual roast in the square and along the harbour. On Saturday, there were at least two day-boats in, if not more, and plenty of visitors and locals out enjoying the good weather and the Easter celebrations. The Blue Star made a trip to Kastalorizo for the weekend, and I know some Symi folk want on that, and the Panagia Skiadeni, now back to its Rhodes-Panormitis-Symi runs, was here as well.

I’ll ease you back into my day to day blogging with a few more photos and then go and enjoy the rest of my bank holiday, during which I also have to find us a new washing machine and some outdoor furniture. Now then, where did I leave that catalogue…