28 February 2011


  • Excellent edition, well edited, superbly illustrated.

  • With reference to my mother (complete with pic), it gets the title right - Lady Holmes, rather than the elevated Lady Marjorie.

  • Ace job all round

  • Super photos of all the right people at all the right activities

  • Succinct reporting

  • Well done The Editor and well done Holy Trinity.

    Grab your own copy pronto.

    Archdeacon visit: There was a buffet lunch after the service that I will remember; perhaps forever.

    There I was, hovering with my rictus smile and the Archdeacon came over and we sat together for a while as he put me at my ease as is his skill and wont, and then he cut straight to the chase, asking me with deceptive mildness how I passed my time.

    Of course, I do not pass my or any other time. After

    1786 days, or

  • 154,310,400 seconds ~ 2,571,840 minutes ~ 42,864 hours ~ 255 weeks...

    there is no actual usable time to pass. My brain and thought processes have been reduced to mush and pea-brained zombiedom ....

    And how interesting that I simply invented a load of puff about the guitar rather than take advantage of this wise and shrewd man who might have 'helped' me. Not there and then, midst party, of course, but ... later.

    My loss.

    And how ironic that the one place where I can find intelligent conversation and sympathy is also where my blood rages and clench my fists and bite my tongue lest I say aloud what I'm oathing and obscening inside:

  • In my 4+ years here, I don't think I've had 3 straight weeks off chauffeuring, waiting, re-chauffeuring ... in other words, buggering up my Sunday morning with useless time wastes.

    I was looking back in my email to see when my friends finally gave up on inviting me to join them on their one free day a week: they were hardy and faithful.

    It's a shock and disgrace to realise that my new friends that made here lasted longer than I was allowed to keep my personal jewelry and my girls' heirlooms.

    I have pals still letting me know their plans, in case I can join them, up to May and even June 2007.

    I arrived in Corfu on April 11 2006 and on April 6th - not even a full year - my most precious possessions were removed behind my back and taken to my brother's place in Italy. No discussion, no advance warning, no offer to explain to my girls why their inheritance was being moved to a country that we ourselves describe as made up of thieves. Corfiots being liars, of course, according to the book of Holmes, but if you think about it, stealing is also a sort of lying. Certainly when you're stealing from family, under the same roof and to whom it has not yet occurred to be on guard within as well as without.

    My previous Sasha had a wonderful quip snap back at someone who was trying to 'justify' or 'understand' the double filch by mother/YaYa/brother/uncle:

    "Perhaps your mother saw them lying around and felt they should be stored more safely - perhaps you took them outside one day and forgetfully left them there ... on the side of the pool."

    "He kept them in a red box, in a bedside locker! If he's left them on the side of the pool, he'd still have them to this day!"
    You know? That's absolutely true - it's obvious now that there would have been less chance of my treasures being lifted by a passing tramp or immigrant than my own kin. As my ex-wife joked at the time,
    "Well, you can't say your mother wasn't right in a way ... moving them from Corfu to safe honest Italy and away from the light-fingered Corfiots: 40 years and all round the world you keep your possessions safe; come to Corfu and they don't last even a year."
    I tell that to everyone, it goes with the maxim about Ities stealing and Corfiots' economy with the truth.

    But back to this model issue of Pulse. I cannot look at it without pangs of intense dislike as my ears echo with the endless droning gushes; daily burblings about tiles by the gate; on and on about some biddy who had the gall to ask for a clipping of daffodils; mutter mutter yak yak about applying to do the church flowers twice a month. No use to point out that if the current flower person is so stonking ham-fisted and black-fingered, all that's needed is to shove the name down on the rota in an available spot.

    Yes, indeed, well spotted: TWO more frigging chauffeurisms per month for Joe Sapouni. In, park, hang around church, back home.

    to be continued and continued, and continued

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