guest room books

sitting room bookshelves

bkcase left

ivory cutter

harbour view and sailor/ferry

cityscape from hong kong book

Poor quality pics of books mentioned.

bkcase, my bedroom

My dad's bookshelf, in fact, with books from *his* youth - Dickens, Encycl Brit, masses of classics (Dad took Greats at Cambridge), and top of the shelf Hong Kong government annual reports going back to God knows when, probably when Capt Elliott signed the treaty.

Oh, and the framed certificate on the left is my mum's induction into the Linnean Society of London.

Way to go, mother, and the rest of you, don't say you don't get a decent education on this blog.

Two by Two

Zut alors, or whatever the demotic equivalent is - there I am enjoying a quiet metrios when - literally - out of the horizon winds this polite crocodile line of docile tourists.

Stefanos says French but I *know* they are English.

Trust me, I say - no one walks quite like the Brits abroad.
Salute: Stef is even prepared to bet me but I don't want to take his money.

As they draw nigh he waves and bellows out Vive la France, to which with one accord they look blank.

"God save the Queen!" I shout out but in my thickest Greeky accent so it comes out, "God-a save da Quin". One of the gents waves back and then they stop as their leader debates whether to take the beach route.

"Can we get to the beach this way?" he calls over to us.

I practise a Greek shrug and say "Sorry, no understand" while Stefanos says "Yes, is that way beach.

But beach not open. Is no sun."

"Wot's he talking abaht?" someone asks, "how can a beach not be open?"

"Eez not open," I call out. "Eez water but no sand. Sand not come yet."

The leader beckons and they troop on down.

"Beach no open," says S solemnly, but neither of us bother to check. 

Anorak

Chatting to a distinguished gent - confirmed bachelor visiting for the sunny season and an eyeful of buff bods glistening under our Ionian sun - I asked him how he managed to keep so up to date on the news that matters (ie dirt and scandal).

Quick as a flash, he summoned from his laptop Favorites this  splendid site.

Surprised I haven't come across it before - tabs on the tabloids is exactly what I want to keep.

On the subject of towels (see below), I've looked and they're *not* on sale so maybe there's my niche calling: plenty of flannel with boys and girls besporting themselves but none of firm-bodied adonises rubbing abs and pecs or whatever they chafe together these days.

Hetero towels only? In Greece? Tsk - what *would* the Mykonos Tourist Bureau say about that?

(Actually, I'm absolutely positive that if I went to Mykonos I'd see *only* lad-on-lad flannel and it'd be a challenge to track down anything remotely resembling my sunset number.)

Tasteful Towels

I have been cruising the bazaars for manly stuff to send back to my guitar buds in Bagels and environs.

I have nailed the right stuff.

Every stud needs a macho towel in which to be draped as he steps out the shower (and then drops it) and winks at his honey.

I know Larry, Eddie and my good buddy Dave W (who I miss so much) do.

Et voici. What could be more suitable?

The towel on the left shows a map of Corfu/Kerkira:

Local names: Corfu - Korfu - Kerkyra

Surface: 641 sq km

Population: 107,395

Climate: Warm Mediterranean. In summer, dry hot days, some breezes.

Mild winters but often wet.

Rainy season: November to March.

See that churchy looking graphic, second one down? Inland left a bit and you have where I am, outside Gouvia in the "highland".

"Gouvia apano" is the Greek guidance, "Gouvia and up a bit."

Sunset towel (4th from left): Well I never. Super slim bods but why are they staying so angularly correctly apart?

I assure you that any gals or guys hereabouts who get to clinch that close don't leave a whisper's space at waist level. Wait, I know - he's British. But of course - far too polite to groin grind.

She of course is thinking, "Just my luck to mistake that tan and monosyllabic grunt for a lusty local. Ho hum, better go along with it and stick my butt out and try to ditch him asap and get back to Spiro."

Out on a limb

(and other Mercy Exits)

I've been thinking about Concerned Reader's friendly message and her distinction between "gardening" and the simpler horridness of "weeding".

My curiosity piqued by a comment she made, I've also been cruising the property searching out likely limbs.

Look at that corker above - phwoar! And just outside the toolshed.

Are we talking Tom Dooley territory or what? LOL

And over there, the instruments of torture with which I wreak havoc on the land and it wreaks me right back.

Prick: In fact, there's a magnificent "spiker" down by the Cottage that gets me every time.

I reckon that'll do me in sans much effort on my part.

Back to the weed vs gardening debate.

Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn'd distinction between yanking up weedus guvianus  and waving a punkah over the sweaty brow of my Capability Brown brother as he performs a triple-bypass on the Crataegus pentagyna.

The moment I incline from the vertical and glimpse 'jardinerie', my temper goes on short-fuse and I think of large quantities of whiskey and puffs of dark 'baccy such as will lay me low and too incapacitated to ruffle the foliage further.

And what about that brooding limb over there? Down by the pool garden, overlooking "Christine's Bench" so that gives it an edge.

Old Man Snoring: There *is* a God.

Half way thru today's toil, it started raining.

Turned me quite poetic in the manner of the great Nigel Molesworth.

I don't know how many of you read or remember those deathless tomes, but I grew up with them and in moments of stress or extreme joy lapse into Nige's lingo.

Aficionados  will sneer but it's my blog and I'll ham if I want to.

"Dere God,

Thanks a million for making rane. Cor! Sooper timing.

I was on the patio playing with Sam and like a fule let Mum hear me, so of course she asked would I like to do sum weeding?

Yeh, right, like would i suddenly like to find my poket money stopped? So I said yes (curse groan swizz).

I don't know who felt the bigger wede - me or the chaps I was pulling up.

Then it started raining. Yippee.

Thanks soO  much!

It must be so kool being You. Like do you just say 'let there be rain' and it comes bucketing down?

Crikey

And if you don't have a brolly, you just go ahem and it's there.

I don't suppose I can call you for refills?

Is there a direct line so I don't have to go thru the Main Switchboard.

Every time I ask you for anything I get macho-voiced Saint Ashley.

If you know your Party's extension, press 1

If this is an emergency, press 2

If you are going straight to Hell, press 3

If this is a distribution query, please hang up and dial Handbaskets-R-Us"

And so forth. Gotta have a giggle now and then.

Bullying Fat Slob

I'm glad "Deputy Prime Minister" John Prescott - and talk about a besmirched title - has been nailed for the hypocrite lying bully he clearly is.

I'm also delighted that JP's 'diary' secretary Tracy Temple has the services of PR supremo, Max Clifford, who never takes on a kiss-n-tell tale unless there's real dirt with mileage to line his pockets.

Of course, what we're all agog over is where else he's been getting his leg over - and how many of *those* women will come forward with their ghastly tales. Not an easy decision: take the money and you let the whole world know what an undiscerning slag you are with abominable tastes in, er, "men".

I'm sure Ms Temple was just as much to blame - and what's the betting 'diary secretary' will be *the* sinecure postion we'll be clamouring for in all the Sits Vac ads? - but it was Prezzer's fat arse in the driving seat, and he deserves to pay the price.

I just hope the Tory party has the balls and know-how to stick it to the pasty-faced lump of lard.

And full marks to the fragrant (Mrs) Pauline Prescott, who sounds an absolute treasure. She's played it perfectly: outwardly forgiving her wayward hubby, even urging him not to give up his political career.

Heed my words: she'll bide her time and then deliver the money shot to the goolies when it hurts and counts most. Not just a pretty lady, that one: she knows how to play the waiting game and savour the revenge dish when it's nice and cooled.

Swinging from a hosepipe

A honey of a reader emails me a splendid long and helpful letter ref my mewling Gardennuie post.

Full of positive vibes and practical advice, to the effect that, no sooner do I hightail it out of London than I'm talking about hoisting myself with my own hosepipe from the nearest tree.

Like any sensible person, she's not sure how to respond on site but is concerned enough to email and urges me not to despair.

Honestly, that's the sort of thing to bring a tear to my eye and a loosening of the knot.

Actually, I think she's thinking about this whiney post, wherein I don't actually mention a hose but what a deuced good idea. There are miles of them lying around, tucked into the undergrowth or just hanging around just waiting for some idiot to casually toss a length over his shoulder, accidentally have it loop over a stout branch and the other end ensnare his neck, a stumble over a well-placed cone - and 'tis done.

Oh, but Honey of a Reader's mail has saved me from all this.

Even more likely, I simply trip over a camouflaged length and go pitching down the hillide, busting neck on some convenient boulder. I'm sure the hound Sam can be relied on to nudge me in the right direction.

Just kidding.

How could I quit this mortal coil just before summer kicks in and all those luverly tourists will be walking around in the oh-so tasteful and ethnic T-shirts we now produce to adorn our shapely guests for taking home as reminder of their educational visits to this island of history and beauty.

The top garment refers to the wearer as a qualified "m*** diver" and the one beneath it with the fat lady having some anatomically impossible horridness done on her is worse.

Years back when I saw my very first T-shirt sporting an obscenity, it was in town and was even attracting the attention of the locals.

I and some pals swore that if they ever came out to our part of the island - Gouvia, Kondokoli, Ipsos - we'd organise a posse of muscular Taste Police and tear them from where they hung and cast them into some muddy sewer.

Of course, by next year they were everywhere and the more pressing cause was the rise of muddy sewers dumping far more tasteless ordure than mere clothing into the azure Ionian.

Cain't win, but I can unknot that hose and carry the fight on a few more days.

Thanks, EW. Life-saver.