There has been a lot of this kind of activity in the past few days:

(That’s not a rescue or anything dramatic so don’t get your loukoumades in a twist, Maureen.) Over the last couple of weeks, I’ve noticed a lot more helicopter activity than usual, and have been speculating on why. (Speculating, Shirl’, this isn’t factual news.)

There have been several types of helicopters coming in, usually across the bay, over Harani and onto the landing pad which we can see from the sitting room. First, there’s what I assume is the Air Sea Rescue chopper because it has SAR on the side, and I’ve seen people getting off carrying stretchers and the like. I’m not sure if this is practice or if they have been rescuing refugees during the day. Possibly both because the people traffickers are now bolder and bring boats of ‘tourists’ over from Turkey during the day, and their desperate fee-payers clamber off dressed as if for a holiday. I guess, in a way, that’s safer than the night crossings.

Then, there are the private choppers belonging to the rich and couldn’t-care-less who think nothing of flying to Rhodes to meet a private helicopter to fly them across to Symi where they get a private car to take them to a private speedboat to take them around the island someone else’s private yacht for lunch, during which they might discuss climate change and how other people should be doing more, before making the return journey in the same fuel-guzzling way in the late afternoon.

Some of the smaller, mosquito-type helicopters may be bringing superstar names over to perform at the Symi Festival, I guess, not that that’s any better than the rich and unconcerned when we have something like ten perfectly good boats a day coming from Rhodes. Then, there is the occasional military chopper, though I’ve not seen any of those of late. They tend to come in bringing bigwigs from various military departments when there’s a commemoration or a parade. Finally, the other one I’ve not seen much of of late is the medical helicopter, which is a good thing, I suppose. They used to practice regularly on a Monday or Tuesday night but haven’t been doing that recently. Maybe it’s more of a winter thing.

Anyway, for what it’s worth, those are my early Monday morning thoughts. Now, it’s upwards and onwards to my final edits as I’ve a deadline to make by Thursday.

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Have you met Iris Oratoria? At first, I thought she was a piece of classical church music, but that’s an oratorio. She could be a drag queen, I suppose, or the punchline of a limerick, but actually, she’s a Mediterranean mantis, and she was out on the razzle last night. I think she’d had a bit too much already because when we leant in to get a closer shot, she swayed from side to side, then proceeded to climb onto the phone. We popped her onto a nearby plant, so she didn’t get squashed by a beer glass.

So… Off into the dark depths of another weekend, and I am approaching the end of the last draft of the next story and have booked in the proof reader for next week. I have the cover which, if you keep an eye on www.jacksonmarsh.com and my Fakebooks pages you will no doubt see before long. It’s a dark tale this time involving child exploitation in Victorian times, Grand Guignol (a few years before it was first seen, but…), and stage illusions. It’s been a fun research project what with London sewers, vanishing ladies, The Egyptian hall in Piccadilly, Maskelyne and Cooke’s home of English mystery and so on. I can’t tell you the number of books, articles and old newspapers I’ve read. I only wish I could retain all the information that passes by my eyes. Once found, used, and written in, I tend to forget it to make room for something else.

Oh, Iris is back…

So, that’s what I am doing this weekend. Finishing a book and writing my author’s notes and blurb. Whatever you are doing, have a good one, and watch where you put your beer glass.

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I had all kinds of ideas for things to bleat about today, but then forgot them. One returned to me as I was browsing my Fakebook thing, and I made a connection between Yialos and Mount Everest.

I saw this video of the climbers on Everest queuing up to summit. It was horrendous, I mean it looked to be about half a mile long, all waiting in the Death Zone to tiptoe across the Hillary Step (if it’s not been worn away), then queue up again as they are dying from cerebral edema to stand amid a pile of prayer flags, before turning around and coming down past the lifeless bodies of their colleagues who didn’t make it.

I know, there’s only a certain window to summit because of the weather, but I thought the authorities were going to put restrictions in place. Clearly not, not judging from those videos and reports. They also reminded me of what I was saying about the Galapagos Islands and Machu Picchu and how they wanted to restrict tourism there but couldn’t afford to lose the tourist revenue despite the fact the tourists were ruining the very thing they were coming to tour. Seems the same is happening on Everest.

Which is a far cry from Symi, Greece and Yialos, except, on a smaller scale, it’s not. When I was in Yialos for lunch the other day I couldn’t get over the number of mopeds and cars (I sound like one of those tourists who think ‘their’ island is being spoiled), and the number of people. It’s the same thing: a small window of opportunity meets a large and expanding demand. Despite the crowdedness of the harbour, it all still worked, everyone seemed jolly, and it was bustling rather than teaming. Anyway, before much longer, the window will start to close, and we will have our peace and quiet back for the winter.

Another fun fact coming at you from left field is that I have tracked down the admin office for Dame Shirley Bassey (DSB). Why? Because she gets a mention in a section of my godfather’s biography, and I wanted to send her a copy in case she remembered him. This means I have to order a copy from Amazon, wait for it to arrive, write a letter, find some international money something order to put in, in case they want to write back, and post it off. That challenge should be met in about two weeks if I order the book today. It’s been doing well, I am pleased to say, and Uncle Bob’s getting what he wanted: his story known. If you’ve not read about it, click the image below.

This is the story of one gay man, born in 1919 in Tooting. There are, no doubt, many others, but maybe not many led such a diverse life. Bobby’s colourful life crossed paths with King George VI, Sir Winston Churchill, the Dalai Lama, Shirley Bassey, David Bowie, Quentin Crisp, Ruth Ellis, and numerous other crowned heads, politicians, entertainers and leaders of society.

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Fabulous day yesterday. Did some editing, met H, walked down to Yialos, met up with Neil then Sam, had a pre-lunch drink (thank you, Cobi!), then to SeeMe, met Jenine, ordered burgers, opened presents (H), had a great laugh, said hello to Tina via video thing, plant delivery from Symi Flower, had post-lunch drink (‘What d’you want? A Coke? Small beer?’ And your 21-year-old godson orders an Amaretto some of which he later slips into his brother’s milkshake when he’s not looking), found a taxi after three in the afternoon, back to village, H to home with cakes for his work colleagues that evening, a couple more in the square (Rainbow still closed for another day or so), long chat about music and musical theatre, home, bed, day sorted. Only a few photos to share though, got to keep some family moments private.

Busy in the harbour again, mopeds everywhere, the tide was up because of the moon, slight flooding, lots of wobbly, bare flesh, boys with exposed boobs bigger than those of their GFs which were barely contained behind dental floss bikinis, eek, the boys should be made to wear bikini tops, ask me, great service from Aigalos café and SeeMe. That’s it. Off to work.

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As you might know, I’m currently writing a series of mysteries set in London in 1893. One of my most helpful assistants in this task is a large set of road maps of the city from 1888. Apart from giving me routes and distances, it’s interesting to see how many places and streets have changed or changed names over time. I lived in London for over 12 years so know parts of it pretty well, and now you’re wondering where this is leading.

It’s leading to a couple of nights ago when we watched a comedy action film that was all about a reluctant hero being recruited as a spy/assassin/agent/etc. by his high school sweetheart. You know the kind of thing, with a mad plot, lots of CGI, and a fun way to waste 90 minutes. The thing is, part of it was set in London, and there was lots of outdoor filming giving me a good chance to bore Neil with comments such as, ‘I used to walk past there,’ and ‘I had dinner there once,’ and ‘That’s where we went to see Donald Sutherland in that play,’ and so on. It also gave me a chance to have a good laugh, not because of the script or acting, which were fine, but because of the editing.

I won’t be alone in this. In what? In being unable to ignore it when the story moves from location A to D without going through B and C. If you’ve ever watched ‘Pascali’s Island’ (1988, James Dearden), you will have noticed how Ben Kingsley enters his house on Symi, sees the sea out of the window, leaves his front door, and steps into Rhodes Old Town. Well, in the other night’s film, we had a similar thing, only it was a car chase.

We started off at the Savoy, ‘That’s where we saw that play with Donald Sutherland…’ Actually, I had a friend who worked in the box office there, so I saw loads of shows at the Savoy Theatre (‘It opened on your sister’s birthday but in 1881’) including ‘The Mystery of Edwin Drood’ with Ernie Wise, Lulu, and a selection of endings the audience had to vote for. All very odd.

Anyway, our reluctant hero leaves the Savoy driving on the right. (The privately owned Savoy Court is the only road in the UK that I know of where you drive on the right. This is partly due to ladies of old usually sitting behind their carriage driver, and at the Savoy, they could step from the carriage and enter the hotel without having to walk around the vehicle.) Our hero, though, turns right and continues to drive on the right when he enters Strand because he is American. When his high-school sweetheart points out he’s on the wrong side of the road and he nearly takes down a black cab, he has to drive across the central thingy outside Couts Bank, which causes us great hilarity. They are heading for somewhere in West London, so why he is heading east is anyone’s guess. As is why he is, in the next shot, driving north across the Thames. Presumably, he’s done a very quick ‘round the block’ over Waterloo Bridge, and come north again via the Hungerford Bridge because he’s now coming up Northumberland Avenue to Trafalgar Square, some 0.4 miles from the Savoy had he turned left from the hotel and not gone on a tour of Southwark. Oh, and clearly, no-one told the director that the Hungerford Bridge is a rail and foot bridge only, but by now, we’ve not only suspended our disbelief, but we’ve had it hung, drawn and quartered.

And so it goes on. Up The Mall one way, down Pall Mall the other for no reason, past the Post Office tower, a quick glimpse of St Pancras Station, and just around the next corner and we’re in Lancaster Gate. If only travel in London was so fast and so picturesque.

Anyway… My travel today will be closer to home, as we have a lunch appointment in Yialos with a couple of grown-up godsons. Before then, there is the obligatory typing to be done and this post to post. Happy driving!

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