Coast Roads

Bored waiting for the phone and news of mater in her plush Athenian clinic. If she really does intend to fly back tonight, we had better get our skates on because all flights will be full with weekend returners.

But I tell you, that gal is popular: the phone has been ringing non-stop since she left for the tests, well-wishers wishing news.

Escape route: I notice that the fridge is stocked with exactly what I need for a good picnic so I gather victuals, vino and CDs and set out to trace some of those coastal roads that intrigued me as we came into land.

Also, I need to stay clear of Gouvia because I have a horrible feeling that the streets will be lined with idiot tourists in sombreros drinking Cuervo and celebrating Cinco de Mayo. I desperately do not want to have to kill someone to keep these Ionian shores pure and free for sunset towels and miniature shaped bottles of the sacred ouzo.

I also need to get away from CNN's insidious hold on me. I had all the news and TV back on Bainbridge. The rest of my life will be spent in meditation and purging the images of Dr Phil, Oprah, The Donald and, of course, those duchesses of diletante, messrs Couric and Lauer.

News

So Blair's taking a beating in the local elections - good. There's something inherently flakey about that man, besides which his wife has an extroadinary mouth that invites fantasies not suitable for a family blog.

The Brits I've talked to here seem to be voting BNP and they're not by any means racists or hard core thugs. There's clearly a backlash in the country against the appalling multi-cultured inclusive drippy liberalism that's sapped the national character.

The Independent is good on the BNP bit.

Appalled to see that fat turd Prescott and his scurvy team are to be "trained" in correct screwing techniques when getting one's leg over the diary secretary.

This sort of nonsense should stay over in America where it was invented and where such ridiculous gullibility has a natural home.

Wasn't it Michael Douglas who ditched his wife of 20+ years to go off with the delectable Zeta-Jones and pleaded sex addiction. OK - so some guys can - and do - pull every chick they look at and have a great time. I know a lot of folks closer to home who'd like that talent but we don't go round needing training or giving it fancy names.

Much more important - maybe even topping Iran - is David Blaine's latest crazy stunt to play goldfish and then hold his breath and then ... but oh my lord, his hands ... they're like plankton. It'll be months before any woman lets him fondle her. Bad move there, Davy.

As I drive, I alternate between Dylan CDs and the local Greek radio. In fact, I almost went over a cliff thanks to 'Nashville Skyline'.

I'm one of those dangerous fools who fiddle with music and lighters and radio dials while negotiating narrow roads with people like me coming in the opposite direction. I'd got bored with NS and ejected it and chucked it on the passenger seat (which should by rights be occupied by some shapely hitchiker but I suspect they're all down Gouvia strutting their stuff in the Pancho Villa wet T-shirt contest.) Anyway, I slung the CD on the passenger seat and was fumbling Dire Straits out of the jewel case and trying to find the slot, when I went round a corner and the Dylan caught the sun and totally blinded me with its reflection. Left spots in my eyes even as bikes and trucks whizzed past. Hell.

Speaking of the saintèd Dylan, what's with this Theme Time Radio DJ stuff I'm reading? I'd LOVE to hear Dylan rumbling and rasping on about music.

I must consult walking Zimmerman expert Wells-sahib on the matter.

OK - laptop batteries waning and there's good vino to sink and feta cheese and salad to toss and chunky bread to munch and viandes and dips.

Maybe when I get back, mum'll've called and we'll have a time and ticket as to when Olympic Airways delivering that precious lady back home.