Today, I can mark myself free from alleged book promoters ‘reaching out’ to me because I’ve not found any such emails in my inbox so far today. Then again, it is only five in the morning. This is probably the first time in the last three months that I’ve not received an invite from a dubious-sounding book group in Idaho, or been invited to talk on WXYZ radio. In the past, I’ve even turned down invitations to attend conferences in Buttbang-Nowhere, and rejected the idea that I might like to be featured in a newsletter which reaches the entire population of Monowi, Nebraska. (Population, one. Elsie Eiler, who is the town’s mayor, clerk, treasurer, librarian, and the proprietor of the local tavern, where, I am told, it gets really wild on late nights. (Honest. Look her up.)) So, I have a clear desk, which also means there’s nothing in the inbox to amuse me, sadly, but maybe I’ll get something later.

Amuse? Well, yes. They are better than bills, which seem to come all too frequently these days.

And that brings us on to everyone’s favourite subject; sunbeds. The air is abuzz with speculation. What will the prices be at X this year? How much are they charging over at Y? ‘There are far too many at Z beach, you’re packed in like sardines.’ I have already heard that a couple of times, and it’s a shame. I mean, it’s a shame that some beaches around here are now more about raking in money than they are about preserving what it was that attracted people to them in the first place. Where, 20 + years ago, we’d spend holidays on beaches because of the solitude and scenery they offered, now, I avoid them like Farage supporters. I can think of many things I’d rather do than lie in a row of 20 others who have long ago given up on their bodies, sharing their odours, listening to their packing arrangements and news of Jim’s bowel movements since he ate that funny foreign food. I’d rather listen to a piece by Bartok than lie in the sun trying to read a book. I mean, just getting comfortable takes all the joy out of the experience. On your back? One false move and the sun blinds you, your arms ache, and it’s a pain to turn the pages. On your side? Apart from suffering a dead arm and shoulder after a few minutes, you run the risk of looking up from your Maeve Binchy to find a stranger’s wrinkly backside squeezing out of a swimming costume while they’re bent over trying to move an immovable sunbed. On your front? Again, aching shoulders after no time, and with varifocal glasses… at that distance? Forget it.

There’s also the question of privacy. Years ago, we used to climb down rocks and find a small cove all to ourselves. Now, there are steps down to the same place, and no doubt, within a few years, someone would have built a beach there, and be offering the use of exclusive sunbeds for exorbitant fees. Within a few years, the traditional peace and quiet — the non-commercialism and ‘genuine’ experience visitors come to find on small islands — will have long ago ridden the Noddy train to oblivion. What was a naturally self-sustaining beach in an ancient landscape that’s remained unchanged for thousands of years is now a regimented cantonment of regulated sunbeds (price increases with quality) where people come, undress, lie down, get up, dress, trudge off, and leave their mark. I’m not pulling out one in particular, because they’re all on the same journey, only at various stages of transition from pleasantness to profit. But when I see some, I can’t help thinking of one of those post-war holiday camps, like Dymchurch, where everyone stayed in an identical hut and did identical activities… or was that a more sinister kind of camp? I don’t know…

Anyway… I still don’t see the fun in slobbing out by ‘slabbing’ out like a display in a butcher’s window, with who knows who doing who knows what only an ankle’s distance away. If I were to spend a day by the sea, and it hasn’t happened for roughly ten years, I wouldn’t spend between five and €15.00 for the alleged pleasure. Apparently, you might even expect costlier sunbeds later in the season, and there’s a rumour that, in places, if you’re solo, you have to pay for two, because, presumably, tourists only bathe in pairs. Other places have a much fairer offer, of, say, €10.00 for your (presumably) hosed-down slab, but if you buy a drink, that price is subtracted from your bed bill. I’d go for the Champagne and stay all week if I were you.

Right, while I am in a waffling mood, I shall get on with Chapter 35, and leave you in peace to read your Maeve Binchy.

Share on Facebook

Saturday morning: Woke to the sound of the overflow gushing outside the bedroom window, and managed to prevent it from making me rush to the bathroom. It was just before five, and I remembered that, when falling asleep the night before, I had heard the clock tower bell strike the half, as clear as what it was: a bell. I also recalled what various people had said the day before about the coming weather. These forecasts ranged from a possible shower to a yellow weather warning, but that is to be expected these days. There are as many variations to weather reports as there are apps to predict them, yet the simplest one is free, easy, and accurate. You stick your head out of the window, and if it gets wet, it’s raining.

Not long after five, the thunder started, and stayed with us until at least half ten. It was one of those storms where, when it makes itself really known, you cry, ‘Unplug everything, Maureen, and fetch the sandbags!’ Except we don’t actually say that because we don’t have sandbags, and neither of us is called Maureen. Not even in private.

When it was safe to plug back in again, I spent much time researching the effects of cadmium ingestion (in powdered form), and what might be safely mixed with it to give it the appearance of flour. (Don’t try this at home.) Following that, it was a case of discovering how one could test flour for cadmium without causing it to give off poisonous fumes (again, don’t try this at home). That successfully researched, I then went on to source the address of the Jewish Master Baker’s Association, so I could be accurate when describing the antisemitism taking place outside. Having recently addressed the issue of how one made explosives in the late 19th century, the progress of the Irish Question in 1894, and other anarchist-related subjects, I fully expect a knock on the door any day now.

It is all, of course, for the latest novel, which is now at over 120,000 words and almost at the top of the hill. The hill is metaphoric, but once my imagined carriage of clues gets there, it will face a downhill race to the, hopefully, thrilling climax my characters have yet to invent for me, and me for them.

Which brings me to today. Storm gone, clear sky, it’s planning to be warmer again today, and ‘just right’, you might say. I have nothing planned, but the usual stint at the typowriter, and I’ll start that as soon as I’ve posted this, checked the emails, replied to whatever, ignored the spammers (only five today), and seen to the ‘admin’ of the day — number one: make a cup of tea.

Share on Facebook

Sorry I’m a bit late, I was scrolling through the Symi Dream Facebook page and clicking off all the adverts so I could find a relevant post. Apparently, I won’t see Mother Goose & Grimm for 30 days now, whoever they are, ditto things called Faith Panda, Pirates Look at 40, Life in Georgia, and 101 other pages, and I have no idea why they are there. Adverts too, but at least they are vaguely understandable, much as we all hate them. I just saw one which, ironically enough, said, ‘Soon, we will have to watch an advert before we switch on our phones,’ and that seems to be about the way of it. Too much ‘all about making money’ and not enough turning the thing off and enjoying views such as…

I just carried on scrolling while I thought of what else to post, and came across a page called Benidorm and Beyond which conjures up a whole nightmare scenario of whatever could be beyond the excesses we imagine Benidorm to offer. (I’m sure it’s lovely and ‘authentic’ really.) After about ten minutes of the advert clearing, I finally came to a page I’d approved, a Greek newspaper site, to discover Princess Anne was in Crete the other day for a commemoration, and two Greek girls have come first in a European money quiz. Then, there was another one with a video showing me how to make Traditional Sarakatsani pie, which looks far too ambitious for me (apparently, you need a huge table in the middle of a village square, two ancient yiayias and a bathtub), but at least it’s about Greece. Talking of which…

Enough whining for now, there’s a weekend to look forward to, for those who have weekends. For us, we have a little entertaining planned for this evening and nothing much else. It still feels like we’re in some kind of in-between state and waiting for a great invasion of visitors as we normally see around the beginning of June, although there are people here, and more than enough day boats still visiting. The news is finally saying that ferry prices will soon rise, so that is something to keep an eye on if you’re travelling, and we know that prices for power and provisions are rising, so we’ve got to keep an eye on them too. But while it all carries on around us, we’ll get on with things the best we can, and at least we can still have some things for free, such as this:

On which happy note, I must be off and do some publicity, because, thanks to Amazon’s decision about the old Kindle platform going obsolete or whatever it is, page reads under Kindle Unlimited have taken a nosedive off the edge of a cliff. I expect there are as many unhappy authors out there as there are unhappy Kindle users. But let’s end the week on a controversial statement: in my opinion, Georgio & Maria Taverna in the village serve the best chips on the island. There you go, that’s positive, and as you can see, I’ve run out of anything useful to say, so I’m off into chapter 32.

Share on Facebook

Neil has been giving me so many wonderful photos to use, it’s sometimes hard to know what to post. This one, for example, shows how the greenery of April is already fading on parts of the hillside, and the ground has the colour of late summer about it. That might be because it was taken early in the morning.

This one was taken at dawn in Pedi a couple of weeks ago…

And this one, only yesterday.

Already the sun has that height of summer colour to it, yet yesterday we were in hoodies again as there was a cool north westerly blowing. So far this month, we’ve been told that we’ve had the coldest May Day recorded in Greece, and that we can expect excessive heat in July (no change there). Meanwhile, I get messages from England asking if our ferries have stopped running yet, and if we can still afford to eat. The answer to both is ‘no’, but we manage. It’s like some people who are fed by the more sensationalist and nationalist newspapers are wringing their hands in gleeful anticipation of everywhere else being crippled by having no oil, high prices and the rest. As if they are not.

I counted seven day boats yesterday, and I didn’t see all of them. The ones I did see were just about full, which is not bad for early season, so I assume someone can still afford the prices, and they haven’t gone through the roof. I’m not sure what taxi boats are charging here this year, nor the other excursions, but I believe the bus is still only 2.50 (which, let’s face it, is only a €2.00 increase in over 20 years), and last time I used it, Shank’s pony was still free.

Here’s another of Neil’s photos. This one shows the new ramp at Pedi. It doesn’t show the Portaloo/sauna box/Tardis, which has caused some ruffled crepe de chine in certain areas, but you can discover that for yourself, and join the controversy if you like.

The sun’s just about to rise, and I am 120,000 words into a first draft which is careering in a semi-controlled manner towards the crisis point of the story, and I am currently down a disused mine in Derbyshire. It’s based very loosely on the Magpie Mine near Sheldon, and I chose that because it was built in the design of a Cornish tin mine, and fitted my bill. So, that’s where I am heading today (at no expense) as soon as I have posted this.

Share on Facebook

It’s one of those starts to the day. Then again, it often is these days.
Up and up my desk by 5.15, and the first thing to greet me is an email which starts like this:

You were born in a blizzard on the south coast of England.

I knew it was going to be a spam thing because it came from a Gmail account, and I’ve been getting at least three or four a day, sometimes five. This one, though, started like a random demand, or blackmail, or even creepier, like it was saying, I know what you did last summer.

I ignored it, of course, as I did with the one from BBC Radio 2. Actually, I’ll share the start of that one with you, too.

My name is Nancy Davis, and I work with the programming team at BBC Radio 2, a nationally recognized (sic) Hot Adult Contemporary station.

I know I’ve not listened to Radio 2, probably ever, but I do know several people who do, and they don’t strike me as the types who would enjoy Hot Adult Contemporary anything. The steamiest they get is listening to Elaine Paige on a Sunday evening.

And so, the battle with the spammers continues. When I am in the mood, I write back and say something like, ‘Contact my agent,’ and leave it at that. I have done some testing, and I wrote back once saying something like, ‘I don’t pay to give interviews,’ as that’s what they wanted. Someone or an autoboot (sic) got back to me gushing with enthusiasm about how they were about to promote me to 96 misguided Mormons in Kentucky, and it would only cost me $160. Actually, they put the sum in words as if that made it any better.

Anyway, sorry, a photo…

Our odd weather: cloud yesterday, but not cold. I’m currently in the stage of ‘hoodie on, hoodie off’, long trousers or shorts? Shorts for ten minutes, and then change… It’s all a bit up and down, but set to go up again and stay up, no doubt.

In other not much news, I know some or maybe all of the taxi boats are running, most if not all tavernas and shops are open, but I’m not sure of the beaches. I think Apostolis at Pedi mentioned the end of the month. It feels to me like it should be June already because Easter now seems like months ago. There is usually a lull between Easter and the season, but it depends when the celebration falls. This year it was early, so it feels like ages ago, but maybe it’s simply just less busy this year. What with the weather patterns ruined and nutters trying to rule the world, it’s surprising anyone’s able to go anywhere at all. On which cheery note, I must get on and reply to my contact at the BBC commissioning department. You never know, they might want me on the Hot Adult edition of the Antiques Roadshow.

Share on Facebook