29 December 2011


~ Water ~

What with reading dad's Chinese poems, I'm reminded to be on the ball over this year's Chinese New Year ~ 23 Jan - 9 Feb

  • Do check out the page by my old alma mater, the Hong Kong Tourist Association (as it was called in those days; prolly completely different under Mother China)
  • 28 December 2011


    ~ Po Chü-i ~

    Too quick to post the earlier poems from Dad's collection!

    An hour or so later I came across another collection, more heavily annotated.

    The Cranes seems to have invited particular attention, although I cannot match a single word or annotation to any line of the translation.

    How interesting to have been able to ask my father what and where he was fiddling and have him peel back the different shades of meaning that he was straining for.

    The western wind has blown but a few days;
    Yet the first leaf already flies from the bough.
    On the drying paths I walk in my thin shoes;
    In the first cold I have donned my quilted coat.
    Through shallow ditches the floods are clearing away;
    Through sparse bamboos trickles a slanting light.
    In the early dusk, down an alley of green moss,
    The garden-boy is leading the cranes home.

    27 December 2011


    Suddenly colder but I've built a good fire and my mother is warm in her room.

    Tassia and Kosta brought me a bottle of Jack Daniel's. Some sips as I take down my father's books of poems.

    Poets various.

    Feelings on Watching the Moon ~ Bai Juyi

    The times are hard: a year of famine has emptied the fields,
    My brothers live abroad- scattered west and east.
    Now fields and gardens are scarcely seen after the fighting,
    Family members wander, scattered on the road.
    Attached to shadows, like geese ten thousand li apart,
    Or roots uplifted into September's autumn air.
    We look together at the bright moon, and then the tears should fall

    night snow

    I was surprised my quilt and pillow were cold,
    I see that now the window's bright again.
    Deep in the night, I know the snow is thick,
    I sometimes hear the sound as bamboo snaps.

    returning late

    The mountain road is hard to travel, the sun now slanting down,
    In a misty village, a crow lands on a frosted tree.
    I'll not arrive before night falls, but that should not concern me,
    Once I've drunk three warm cups, I'll feel as if at home.

    spring sleep

    The pillow's low, the quilt is warm, the body smooth and peaceful,
    Sun shines on the door of the room, the curtain not yet open.
    Still the youthful taste of spring remains in the air,
    Often it will come to you even in your sleep.

    sleeping on a night of autumn rain

    It's cold this night in autumn's third month,
    Peacefully within, a lone old man.
    He lies down late, the lamp already gone out,
    And beautifully sleeps amid the sound of rain.
    The ash inside the vessel still warm from the fire,
    Its fragrance increases the warmth of quilt and covers.
    When dawn comes, clear and cold, he does not rise,
    The red frosted leaves cover the steps

    26 December 2011


    just what i need to set me up for boxing day.

    you, too


    dot wordsworth does a downton anachonism number on PD James.

    Mum swears Dot is Chris Howse but i'm not now so sure.

    24 December 2011


    once again, the economist deliver.

    everyone catches it in the neck, every profession.

    long time since i read anything thru with such satisfaction.

    22 December 2011


    Just hearing 'Lightning' singing with such feeling - and cop that guitar! - makes the little dribble I'm moaning about feel like sunny days again.

    Anna's ploy: some friends of friends on Bainbridge Island were coming up from CA to check out property and we were thinking on how to discourage them.

    It was cats and dogs at the time.

    Anna - circa nine - chirped up,

    "Why dont I put on my bikini and Dad put on his Hawaii shirt and we meet them at the ferry and go like "Yayy! You brought the good weather!"
    and then as we drive to Kris and David we're like telling them all the fun things planned:

  • BBQ in the garden (mud glorious mud)

  • Games round the pond (ie the pothole in the drive)

  • Go to Sasquatch beach and look at Seattle thru the Puget Sound mist.

    How we laughed, the scamp.

    In the end they didnt come; preferred their cosy hotel room up on 6th and Columbus to the chilly deck of Washington State Ferries. Didnt sound like our kind of people any road.

    Whoa, that photo of Koutsi up there, feel a song coming on. Where dat woman wit' her kazoo? Need that cat sound.

    "Got me a lonesome bell to toll, use it to call my hungry cat
    Nnghh ... that lonesome shepherd bell, sound like heaven to a hungry cat,
    Maybe six of sister squirrel, half a doz' o' Mister Rat"

    Lord have mercy ... been to the nation, all around the territo' just for a decent cut of rat.

    This rain keep up, make my guitar a sampan ... float right down to Di' Ella's Delicatessany.

    Gorgeous submission by my favourite blues man.

    So obvious, from the first wail, why he likes it; the harp sounds like him and on first hearing it he must have dropped that thesis and rushed straight to the cellar to wail.

    I will get him in the end: we'll be at some blacktie do, donnish chatter, everyone behaving, 'Lycidas and his Languid Lutes' playing discreet Dowland.

    I'll have slipped the guv'nor a tenner to take one song and one only.

    And i'll start into this beauty and savour the sight of the penguin-suited prof twitching and groaning ("Maria, surely you packed my harmonicas? What, not even the D?")

    I'll eke it out, the audience entranced, Jimmy P disintegrating as phrase after phrase passes, crying out for punctuation.

    The prof turning left and centre:

    "But you dont understand, it really does need the ... oh, never mind.


  • 21 December 2011



    He changed us all.

    Bert's kinship with the guitar and his clear vision of where he was heading on the frets is now in our DNA, impossible to separate from what was before.

    Merry Christmas.

    20 December 2011


    ~ Landlord Whine ~

    My script to a T.

    Our hitherto trustworthy tenant in the cottage has done a bunk and left a few gaps.

    Also a whole lotta mess outside his bijou accom.

    Also a ton of good stuff and his precious car which his spurned girlfriend intends to sell. Apparently, when our lad set off for England - unannounced to all - he was passengering a little chickadee he told his lady he'd jettisoned full six months ago.

    As the gods would have it, I have a policier pal who adores maman and has let her know that if there's anything he can do ....

    I met him for coffee with his thuggo fuzz mates and explained all.

    Ma foi! But Christo, did I not remember him telling me he had a good friend who was looking for a rental and had commented on the cottage as most desirous? His beat is the marina precinct stretching to the mean streets of Dasia and his girlfriend worked at the hospital.

    Location location location.

    I told him I was just worried that chummy might come knocking at midnight and threaten a bit of bovver.

    "You have my number. Put it on speed dial. As soon as he comes, call me. Even if he is peaceful, call me. Must be safe."

    There was a little more banter among his cronies who stared stony-faced at me thru their Raybans, making it clear they werent interested in a single thing I was selling.

    POLICE PAL: "I dont tell my friend yet. He will want to help your friend make a good choice and not stay."

    The sort of buddies that make one want to sip on a fifth of bourbon, sit back and play some gentle guitar.

    BEST VIDS 2011

  • "Food". What was in it?"

    "Bacon, the maple kind."

  • Absolutely spot-on voice-over and the dog's expressions.

    And it looks as it was one take.

  • Sheen - tech dubbing and massaging at its best

    Ha! I'll dust that CorfuBluesMan's yuletide broom for him!

    [Thanks for e-greet from chilliest Dorset, by the way; might as well get that in and multi-task: blues to bread 'n' butter]

    My brother and I share a delight in campy white Brit blues from back before the real deals came along. Clapton tells the story of his salad days when a bloke up his street ordered all these Chess records from over yonder. Eric and his mates knocked on his door and he brought his latest LP to show these pimply pluckers ... and they just stood there and gazed, silent on a doorstep in Crouch End.

    Speaking of stoutism, my dad was a secret chap in the far east, all hush hush n all, and was dating my mum who was back in Oz. Being in luhve n all, his mind was a bit gaga n he sent her a message saying he felt like stout Cortez, hint hint at where he was but not likely for johnny to twig.

    Mum was like - well, mum-like cept she wasnt a mum yet - and she wanted to let dad know she wasnt a total thicko so she replied blurting proudly on his reference.

    Poh poh! If dad was to be believed, this blew the whole Pacific Theatre plans sky high, scramble scramble, might as well have sent the Japs map co-ordinates of every BAAG agent west of Kowloon. Always loved that story. Bit like 'Peccavi' and some rogue rajah replying in kind in fluent Latin ("Kennedy-sahib, I too was at Radley, Mr Knatchbull's class, year behind you.")

    Back to the clip, always fascinating to see those oldies of Keef when he had a face.

    Just kiddin', Massa Potts. Wouldnt do that to you.

    16 December 2011


    ~ Yellow fever vaccine disgrace ~

    Go now.

    Google 'Malcolm Brabant yellow fever' - and I'm ashamed to my roots not to have kept current with this hero journalist - then dash out and pick up today's 16 Dec Athens News, Thrasy Petropoulos's page 13 story of how this consummate news sleuth has, allegedly, had his life wrecked by Stamaril/Sanofi Pasteur vaccine

    [I blush to see the name Pasteur appear in the same line].

  • Read up for yourselves and, as I say, I'm ashamed I hadnt competently set my RSS's and all those feeders they offer you to catch this earlier.

    Google gawp and petition. Kick some major e-ass for all the ace reports you've benefited from thanks to this fearless journo of the old school. The real stuff.


  • Most respected ~ Daily Mail

  • I cannot read the references to Jesus. I cannot imagine the pain of his family and wife, Trine Villemann.

    This larger-than-life master of his trade.

    Malcolm and I spoke a few times on the phone and shared emails and I always looked forward to when our diaries fitted and we'd knock back a few beers on the San Luca terrace ... I mean, fuck it, what's going on?

  • Chris Hitchens gathered

  • Malcolm laid cruelly low.

    Le Bon Dieu up there, taking his eye off the ball. Not good enough. Losing the plot. Flubbing it.

    Ack ptui, room galore for serious improvement.

    Do it: add your voices.


    The very sad passing of a much-needed thorn in many eminently thornable sides.

    And that's the photo that conjures up the Hitch I remember from my booksy days when I brushed the garment hems of the Lords of the London Lit Universe: Amis, Fenton, McEwen, et al.

    I used to mewl and mow whenever Martin Amis breezed into my ken but to no effect. Then Alison Press came out with Bellow's Humboldt's Gift and we had him over to do that show by Melvyn Bragg (another of our authors; jobs for the boys) and that's when I found out that Amis was a huuge fan and was dead keen to interview him - prolly for the New Statesman.

    As it turned out, they must have met before because when I put it to Saul as a bit of a coup he wrinkled his nose and refused.

    But it came off - as did other big-beast interviews with authors under my hackery - and those were the times when everyone was terribly nice to me.

    Hitch was always civil to me and I'd send him my catalogues and speed along anything he fancied without any nonsense about where or when or even if he might give it ink. He invariably sent hand-written thanks on the smuttiest poastcard he could find. They were of such a high standard I suspect he bought them where and whenever he saw them and kept them ready in reserve.

    In memoriam ~ Vanity Fair

    14 December 2011


    Euhh, spoke out of turn. Dog house.

    Key won't fit the door, phone off the hook.

    The dulcet tones of John Lee will bring her round.

    Dr David Kelly CMG, DSc

    Among my circle I seem to be a lone indignatus over the shifty treatment of David Kelly's death.

  • I did at the time believe that there was a strong possibility that he had been helped on the way and the bizarre attitude over an inquest increased my suspicion.

  • On the other hand, none other than Tom Mangold poo-poohs this.

  • David Halpin has stepped in.

  • Halpin website

  • The Inquest site

  • Blog

  • One of my favorite blues whose words are so good that, despite my own fluting fauntleregal voice, I sneak up to the bedroom with the Ovation and sing it out over the Gouvia badlands.

  • Do listen to the reference to "been to the nation and round the territo'"

  • Likewise going to the big house and he dont even care ... he might get 4 or 5 years, Lord he might get the chair."

  • Going to the Nation ... round the territo' ~ lor' lumme, first time i heard that i started lopping words wherever i could. Soo cool.

    My wife snapped "What's all this 'Going to the supermar' ... pickin' up the laun'?"

    Fast as a striking scor', I snapped back, "And round the territo'."

    Wordpla', dudes!

  • 11 December 2011


    I'm probably the last person to have caught up with this, but i share

    05 December 2011


    - Charlie Brooker's 'Black Mirror' -

    lydia 'princess susanna' wilsonI read everything that clever Charles Brooker writes.

    Here he excels himself: not a word wrong, masterly delivery by a spot-on cast. Rory sublime as PM.

    Listen to his wife's delivery of part 1's closing line,

    "Can I have a word?"

  • Next Scenes, the mirror blackeneth.

  • Denouement.

  • Best actor ~ LYDIA WILSON.

    Everyone is top-notch but a huge bouquet to the talented Ms Wilson [pictured above in more relaxed demeanour] who plays the kidnapped Princess Susannah.

    Dude, that's what I call weeping ~ and catch her at the end as the happy bride.

  • lydia wilsonAn astonishing powerful performance.

    Nay, astonishing powerful production all round.

    The final minutes ... oh poh poh. Tense, thought-provoking.

  • More stuff about the series
  • 28 November 2011


    ~ Rusty and Fred ~

    Just traced this clip after umpteen years. Been looking everywhere for this inspiration to get playing and recording again.

    Now, post it somewhere I can find it again and listen and be inspired.

    Let the rallying call be "A recording by Christmas"

    26 November 2011

    24 November 2011


    Letters to Editor ~ Athens News

    Brave letter.

    "I am a Canadian, who moved to Greece to live with my husband, a member of the Hellenic Coastguard.

    During our three-year relationship, I have learned how corrupt the law is here and how the police abuse their power and, more specifically, how the authorities on the islands get away with everything and ignore all formal procedures and policies.

    I have witnessed firsthand fake reports against Albanians and misuse of power and authority. I am disgusted at how those sworn to protect this country and its citizens are mistreating civilians and getting away with it, sometimes even without a slap on the wrist.

    My coastguard husband (whom I will soon divorce) has one of the worst records but still continues to possess a gun and serve this country. The truth is the public doesn’t need his protection. Instead, they need to be protected from him and all those like him. He is irresponsible, abusive and violent. He sells steroids, works multiple jobs, flashes his gun to frighten civilians, but yet no action has yet been taken to remove this kind of individuals from the force.

    I have currently filled a report to the citizen protection ministry on his crimes and behaviour and I’m waiting for its response. However, I’m doubtful that they will take the proper action to discipline one of their own.

    The punishment needs to fit the crime, and this should apply to all people.

    I am sure there are many others who have experienced something similar, but there seems to be no organisation that I can find that helps protect civilians when the police are involved.

    Name and address withheld"

    I just bet it was.


    Bravo the Literary Review!

    It's that time of year again ~ The Bad Sex in Fiction award.

    "In a year in which literary awards have come under fire for parochialism and dumbing down ... proud to uphold and recognise literary excellence from around the world ... The purpose of the prize is to draw attention to the crude, tasteless, often perfunctory use of redundant passages of sexual description in the modern novel and to discourage it."

  • Google and ogle for yourselves but here are some literary 'fluffers':

  • From the beautiful folks who brought you the Kama Sutra: "Impossibly stiff, impossibly elegant".

  • Lax in tawdry matters: “She picks up a Bugatti’s momentum. You want her more at a Volkswagen’s steady trot.”

    Now that's what I call product 'placement'

    bAnd do look out for "Lovely long louche manhood" ~ if memory serves, 'louche' is the last state in which to have your proud manhood when tendril titties seek the sunlight.

  • "Oh dear, oh my dear, oh my dear dear God, oh sugar !" - courtesy of Stephen King

  • Rowan Somerville's Top 10 of good sex in fiction

  • "A freshly made ear and a freshly made vagina" ~ Murakami [and wouldn't you just know I'd zero in on that?]

  • Paul Sheehan (Sydney Morning Herald) nailing it in his usual incisive form:

    "It takes a lot of bad sex to win the Bad Sex in Fiction Award, and we await the imminent announcement of this year's winner with pulsating anticipation.

    My only regret is that this award is restricted to the narrow field of novels ...In particular, the field of sexual text messages - sexting - is crying out for its own award. Begging for it. The power of sexting is real, immediate, often alcohol-fuelled, sometimes bolstered by lurid photographs"

  • Limpest sex writers = Men

  • 22 November 2011


    I'm sorry Chris Bleakley has finally been dumped with her equally abysmal co-host.

    She's hot as hell but a disaster as a living moving walking talking TV front person.

    But that gorgeous nose and sensuous features ...

    Next in the chat chair ~ albeit with that bland bore Eamonn Holmes (no connection whatsoever) ~ is rumoured to be Tassia "Rue my view" Kaplinksky, better known in the parish of Corfu for the little débâcle over her generous hubby building every which way and up.

    I must follow up what happened ... I thought there was a suicide in the offing by the bloke whose view they ruined but nowt new has reached my ears.

    Ah, there it is ~ scroll down to the bit about topping himself.

    kaplinsky Rather nice to be able to adorn a hum-drum story with fotos of two hotties.

    But the gem of the whole building saga was 'Domus' Skinner coming out with that wonderful Pseuds Corner corker about

    “The estate is one of the most successful restoration projects on Corfu and it would be a great shame if the complaints made by Mr and Mrs Baker muddied the sparkling waters of success
    [My itals of course: Sparkling waters, indeed.]

    That little Miss 'Bubba' Dominique ... it's howlers like that that make him all worth while the giggles.

    10 November 2011


    ~ fineartamerica ~

    What greater pleasure than to introduce others to artistry and beauty?

    Myself, I love taking a camera out and stalking subjects that catch my eye.

    aAlas, there it ends: the result never approaches the joy of the hunt. I lack the eye to frame and have no technical skill when it comes to understanding what's going on in the camera itself.

    And I fuss and I faff and try to be too clever by half.

    bLook at Kyriakis' understanding of what he's actually seeing - across there and below - and then the painstaking trouble to perfect what actually hits and fits the lens.

    Masterly ~ reminds me of one of the Pink Floyd album covers.

    And those footsteps - if it'd been me, I'd've been haring up and down the beach trying to salvage some sort of shot before the tide washed over.

    Very clever.

    05 November 2011


    Excellent piece by Matthew Parris in The Spectator for 29 October asking what is the point of the storytelling bore?

    I am the expert on repetitive bores and I'm forwarding this link to my fellow caregiver contacts in case it gives them any inspiration on how to cope with those endlessly burbling Groundhog-Day droners.

    I've lived with my 91-year-old mother for five and a half years and lost most of my brain cells just sitting captive thru endless observations/reminiscences - all worn threadbare to the bone like a busted brake pad, all repeated word perfect.

    I once made contact with various caregiver groups with one question:

    How do I stop myself going crazy with this endless garbage?

    Parris absolutely nails it over what exactly is going on when the droners spew.

    Precisely zilch is going on, it's just senile turning over of the musty grey matter, what's left. Just tongue-jerk trotting out of whatever happens to be on the slab.

    I mean, the damage they cause to those within range - and there isn't even a fucking light on upstairs.

    Results: worse than useless. All these experts could come up with was

  • Arrange with your caregiver partner [! - a fine thing] to vary/share your hours

  • Arrange with your caregiver replacement to 're-direct' the flow of conversation to something more 'in the present'.

  • Arrange for friends and relatives to drop by on a more regular basis and keep the conversation 'light' and flowing.

    Mewl mewl mewl.

    Every suggestion depended on A.N.Other being around; none dealt with my situation of a carer trapped alone, 1:1 with the blather; nowhere to run. Useless, and I let them know it.

    The closest I've come to a remedy and protection - and I've had reports of success from others - is to keep a notebook and meticulously record those repeats that threaten sanity.

  • This can in fact develop into a fun game, tracking which topics come in and which fade [only to rebound with vengeance!].

  • Remember when you were a cherubic chorister and that 'Vicar Cricket' game to ease the tedium of the sermons? One sort of wave for a 4, another for 6, another for No Ball. Like that. Except you're playing for your marbles.

    This will distract you from listening and will sooner or later catch the eye of the Burbler. The initial effect is wonderful, like a punch to the face because of course they have no idea they are such a literal pain. Just as funny is how irritated they get at your note taking.

    "Will you stop that infernal scribbling!"
    (Work it out, chuckle)

    My mother can tell the same story twice in six minutes, five in the same hour ~ and the content and wording will never change, so it's vital I note the exact minute in order to capture the true agony of the occasion. It also makes for better Excel charts that you can hang on the wall and track against newcomer topics. Hall of Fame stuff.

    Two years ago when I was getting worried about my sanity under this barrage of repetition, I asked around my mother's pals how they themselves coped with her Repetition Dementia.

    Most of them said they simply shuffled away. Not an option for me, trapped at the dinner table, 3 x daily, seven days x week.

    What amused me was one devout church member who sees my mother perhaps twice a month and even then doesnt have to sit next to her.

    He suddenly rounded on me with a,

    "You know what? I sometimes want to grab yer mother and bellow into her ear,

    "Change the record, Marjorie! Change the fucking record!!"

    I told him, "Blimey - and I thought it was me asking you lot for sympathy and advice."

    I once bought a spanking little revolver downtown for seeing off cats and strange dogs.

    Natty little thing that'd fit into the kitchen drawer.

    Someone once described me as,

    "Dear dear Chris ~ a life of endless repetition ad murderous nauseam ... and the rest is gardening."

    And it's true, including the gardening bit.

    The times I have sulked and pleaded and argued and shouted that, surely, by way of reward or small thanks for the times I have spent in the garden, surely - surely - I might be spared the chatter? I've tried every permutation of reminders - zilch. I've even tried walking from the table at the first mention of gardendry.

    I have one last resort which I run through my head as my mother gurgles on.

    But it does require playing by the rules and observing a legit segue cue.

    For instance, if my mother veered into garden gab and used a phrase such as " ... but once planted they never give you a moment's rest", I would then be allowed for me to jump in with a

    "Speaking of never a moment's rest, that reminds me of how never any success ramming home the message that this unceasing talk of gardenry is completely - sickeningly - lost on me.

    After five years', how else are we going to tackle it?

    I know, let me try a different tack. How about this way? Maybe this will clarify my situation ..."

    I remove the pistolet from the drawer and place merciful barrel en bouche. It feels like all my trials soon be over. The ultimate slap in the face for all the dronings on and trudging the treadmill of futility.

    Pull trigger.

    The only drawback is that there are so many other occasions when this gesture would also fit that I'd be loth to waste it on a dud.

    Also, I'd want my girls there, to see the vileness and mirror dementia to which repetition also reduces the 'carer'. The sheer rock-bottomness of our fate. I'd want them to feel the anger and contempt for the damage wreaked by that selfish fuckwit gardenry hobby - oh and pray pray pray they carry the message on through their own lives.

    I suppose the trick is to set the camera up on a tripod with a good view out of range of the blood splatter and have a stamped addressed envelope for the camera card and precise guidelines on how to Youtube it.

    If just one person could be inspired to concrete over just one hectare of green, burn one row of plantery, my blissful cup of escape would run over.

    But I'd need to get the phrasing right on the 'let me put it another way' nonsense because that could be fun and even get into some book of quotations. There'd be cartoons of burly non gardeners, Magnum tucked behind their back, smiling sweetly at nongenarian maternal crones ... lemme put it anuvver way, mum.

    Boom! Flash! Splosh splatter. Have Cee-lo Green thunder from the speakers and a slide show of the more miserable corners of the garden I've trudged thru ...

    But i digress ~ I've marked the Spectator cover with the page number of the Parris piece and run a big red splash down the page itself. Now to make umpteen copies and scatter them through house, church and glove pocket as well as nailed to utility poles next to those fiches de mort.

  • 02 November 2011


    ~ spoof two ~

  • Concentrate, everyone - spoof 2 is far funnier than #1 and our Joanna is hilarious. Wonderful when someone knows how to mock themselves.

  • Spoof One

  • Callow and Lumley - how do they do it?

  • Brendan Coyle interview - lucky bastard, him and that Anna.

    If Lady Mary keeps rebuffing my advances, it's Anna I'm hitting on next.

  • 27 October 2011

    centre piece

    shop storeMULTIRAMA ~ CORFU

    ~ Multi δράμα ~

    big sanyo name

    I've told this story so often of my unsuccessful purchase from Multirama / Sanyo, but a crusading techie journo pal wants me to put something online to which she can refer the top Multirama~Sanyo honchos when she buttonholes them at trade fairs or interviews them in their own offices.

  • I think she plans a consumer magazine report on the straightforward sloppy customer care of allowing a brand new camera to go unrepaired for so long.

  • Next, a Businessweek-style investigative article including interviews and quotes with the top execs.

    Purely on the customer care side, the more information there is out there about stores like Multirama, the more informed new customers are and therefore the more likely to make informed decisions based on experiences such as mine.

    On the trade press and trade fairs front, she has a list of people she wants to discuss her findings with and ask them how much are they really told about how the 'little people' fare when purchases go wrong:

    Ioannis D. Karagiannis
    Mr. Stavros Papadopoulos
    Mr. Ioannis Vasjla'kos


    Mr Nikolaos St. Papageorgiou
    Polichronis Ladonikolas
    Nikolaos G. Papageorgiou
    Georgios Koukoulas
    Stavros Lekkakos
    Vasilios Kakoulidis
    Liveras Pagratis

    QUIZ INQUISITOR - she's one of these reporters who loves shoving little surveys into her articles.


  • JUNE 9, 2011: Purchase of Xacti CG20 from the Solari branch of Multirama.

  • JULY 16: Finally fed-up with the monitor wobbling and drooping, I took it back to the shop and asked should a month-old camera be behaving this way. I was told no and they efficiently packaged it for sending to Athens branch and gave me a receipt and repair docket.

  • AUGUST 17: Checked on progress. None. Call back in a few weeks.

  • Friday SEPTEMBER 16: Check again, this time with journo pal in tow but who stayed silent.

    On previous times, I'd gone downstairs and talked to the tech help rep at the little office at the back. This time I was ambushed on the top floor by a pushy sales rep who gave me a lecture on patience and how Multirama was only the sales conduit and that Sanyo was a big company and I couldnt expect instant attention.

    I commented on the fact that it was a new camera and that trust in the Multirama name was why I brought my money there and not some hick store round the corner.

    To my amused astonishment, he suddenly burst into a tirade lecture about how he worked six days a week and never took a break but Athens worked four days a week and big companies like Sanyo seemed never to be on call ... and I should be patient. I insisted on going down to tech help, to where the salesman followed me and briefed the tech helper who made a half-hearted call to Sanyo but reported that the person in charge of my case was at lunch.

    At this point, my silent but Greek-speaking tech journalista pal decided to make this case her own.

  • Wednesday 12 OCTOBER, 3pm Checked with Tech Support who called Sanyo Hellas 'Camera Support' in Athens and returned, puzzled, to tell me that they had declared it out of guarantee. He would investigate and get back.

    Multirama ~ 23 km National Road Athens - Lamia Agios Stefanos Attica, GR 145 ~ info@multirama.gr


    Sanyo Hellas ~ Sanyo Hellas Holding SA ~ 12th km NR Athens-Lamia 14451 Athens, Attica ~ Tel: 210 2894600 & 210 2894620 ~ e-mail: info@shh.gr

    Multirama SA
    Street: 23rd km Athens-Lamia Nat. Road
    City: 145 65 Attica Ag. Stefanos
    Country: Greece (Hellas) ~ Homepage: http://www.multirama.gr

    Phone: +30 1 629 7412
    Fax: +30 1 621 6154