Weather Vain

Weather forecasts among the ex-pats out here are run on a strictly nationalistic basis:

Brits swear by the BBC; the French have some froggy URL they cuss and revile among themselves but turn very snooty about when des anglais swim into view; I'm not sure if the Italians actual *deal* in weather - they always seem to be gesticulating about more important things. And the Germans call on a whole host of data, from short-wave radio reports to the Web to phone calls home to their own reading of the entrails.

"Nice for tomorrow morning. Clouds for one hour, no rain. Afternoon also nice. Some small rain in evening only." And that's it: doesn't matter what the reality is, that is the weather. Got it?

Urania who looks like Sandra Bullock and runs the local hardware store tells us Sunday will be the hottest in 45 years.

I email this to my list of Corfu Trivia buffs who - because this information is neither Brit nor French nor Itie nor Kraut - reply scoffing. We shall see.

Anyway, it is quite hot enough for us to throw ourselves naked into the pool first thing on getting home, having ensured that my sainted mother is building Blood Marys of the correct consistency and firepower.

During the subsequent mutual application of tanning lotion, my companion wonders irrelevantly and aloud (but out of maternal hearing) if anyone has ever hi-speed photographed the precise moment of ejaculation.

I have no idea but suggest we Google it after lunch.

She bets I will not blog about this and I assure her that it is one wager she has assuredly won.