Bless the husband. Yesterday afternoon, we were at the Rainbow Bar because he started work again, and we were sitting, chatting with friends, when he got up and, I thought, went inside. About ten minutes later, I’m starting to wonder if some kind of incident has befallen the gents’ washroom when he comes up the steps with a bunch of flowers. The only way of getting from the back of the Rainbow to the Kali Strata is over a wall to a long drop, through the taverna’s backyard and the taverna itself, so he hadn’t gone that way. He’d snuck off when I wasn’t looking, bought me some flowers and snuck back. ‘Happy anniversary,’ he says, to which I make the appropriate ooh and ahh noises. ‘Twenty-seven years ago since we met.’ How lovely. We took them home and put them in the only vase we have which is actually a wine jug, and put that on the hall windowsill. A little later, we’re watching TV when the sneezing starts and he’s off to the bathroom to shout/sneeze as he’s not one who can do it quietly, and the wine jug ends up out in the porch. I’m at my desk now and I can still smell it. Very nice, very pungent, and more appropriate today because it’s our anniversary at around midnight tonight, not yesterday, but who’s counting?

My day is off to a typical start as I sit at my desk with my feet being nibbled by mosquitoes, and as I drink a cup of water. I don’t know if you’ve read the Asterix the Gaul books, but in one, they are at a military camp, sitting around the fire at night and Getafix (or someone) is serving tea. Actually, he’s serving hot water because ‘Tea hasn’t been invented yet. How do you take yours?’ ‘Just a spot of milk, please.’ Well, I am doing the same because we ran out of tea-with-taste bags the other day, and I’ve had to fall back on my nameless-and-tasteless emergency supplies which were all we could find here last winter. (They’re not Liptons, they’re worse.) Not to panic, however, as real tea will be forthcoming later in the day. I suppose I can always try dunking a flower to add flavour.

Share on Facebook

I see the great sunbed debate has started up again on parts of antisocial media. It makes for fun reading as long as you’re not easily offended, and that, it seems is a rare trait these days. I also saw some outrage about one of the beaches being privately booked for a couple of days because of a celebration by, one assumes, very rich folk. Then it turns out, this was not an isolated incident. It makes for an entertaining first thing in the morning when you stumble across Mr Unhappy deriding a restaurant because it’s not serving Greek food. He gets countered by Mrs Miffed standing up for said restaurant, and she gets joined by Miss Impassioned who has fifty years’ experience of said restaurant and how very dare you. Then, in wades Master Impartial, but he’s enthusiastically ignored, so Old Man Wise has a go, only to be shouted down by Madame Poulette clucking away about how her money is as good as Herr Beschwerdeführer who, she thinks, doth complain too much, and the next thing I know, my tea’s gone cold.

Morning view

I see it on non-Symi pages, one of my favourites being from my old, old, home town. Good Lord! You only need to ask a question on there and a whole tribe of ‘we live heres’ are at your throat. The innocent poster is stood up for by complete strangers, which is nice to see, but the town divide is obvious. This place, being by the sea where channel-crossers come ashore, falls into two very distinct camps. The ‘Rescue them and do what you can’ brigade, and the ‘Send them back to where they came from’ party. In there somewhere as subcommittees are the ‘Arrest the lifeboatmen and coast guards for people trafficking’ society, or anti-society perhaps, and those willing to save lives no matter what.

Another morning view.

Sometimes antisocial media can be useful, for example, when you want to anonymously vent your frustration about the way the world doesn’t listen to you, so you put up a steaming hot bowl of personal anti-everything bile, and no-one takes the blindest bit of notice. Hey, at least you feel better. I also like to read some of the ridiculous short stories people put up as questions to which they could have easily found the answer had they bothered to research. Such things as: ‘We are coming to the island of Kalos for the first time on September 27th (soooo excited!) and the plane lands at 10.30. Will we be able to get the 10.35 boat? So looking forward to seeing this beautiful island. We are coming with the two little ones, Tammy aged 3 months and Timmy aged 10 months (don’t ask!, lol), and we want to visit beaches where the sand is white and fluffy, though my husband’s mother who is coming with us and who is 97 (also don’t ask, lol), is unable to walk, so we will need to hire a mobility scooter to get up the steps. We shall be staying at a place I can’t pronounce the name of and would love to meet others with young children for yoga and fasting parties, and maybe even go paragliding together as my husband’s mother loves watersports of all varieties. Anyway, can’t wait to…’

Yeah, well. I’ve switched off and got on with my life.

Share on Facebook

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.

Completely random shot of part of the courtyard at night.

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.

Share on Facebook

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.

Share on Facebook

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.

Meanwhile, a quiet moment before the storm.

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.

They even get in via phones, lol!

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.

Share on Facebook