The scrapers continue to work on their escape tunnel in the room next door despite the fact that they’re on the third floor. I once again rise ahead of my preferred schedule. I feel like telling them to shut the fuck up, but don’t want to spoil their holiday.
Andy and Helen go home. It was nice to chat with them and have a bit of friendly banter. Before they go Andy leaves me ‘The Kill List’ by Frederick Forsyth. It is a timely gift because I am stalled at page 167 of the Hunter S. Thompson book; it’s about US politics in 1972 and, despite the humour, not good holiday reading. I throw it in Siggy’s beach bag and immediately start ‘The Kill List’ which I will be reviewing in a forthcoming post.
A swallow shits on my back. Unexpected and annoying. I have the parasol up so I’m confused to how it managed it. I imagine a dedicated dive-bombing mission equivalent in its complexity to the Dambusters raid. The shit is oddly quite dry but sticky and takes a bit of shifting. Siggy helps out once she’s stopped laughing.
One of the new arrivals is in possession of a very loud and annoying voice and produces an incessant stream of vacuous chatter that would not seem out of place in a special needs unit. After lunch I try to blot his noise out with my earplugs, but it has a unique cadence that cuts through the orange sponge. Eventually he leaves with his family. There is a group sigh of relief from those left behind. I fear he will be back tomorrow.
Last year someone left a James Blunt CD to rotate on the pool speakers, this year it is an Adele album. So no-one throws themselves off a balcony, but it gets a bit samey after the fifth play. Eventually one of the sisters takes pity on us and puts on the local music feed which is provided by a local station whose name I like to think is ‘Apples-in-the-Air’ but is obviously misheard Greek.
We eat at Calma. It’s a walk back off the road from bus stop 16 and was our intended destination the evening we went to the Game of Thrones place. The food is good and the service is quick. I have a very nice beef stifado and realise that this is my new favourite Greek dish. The baked potato slices are crispy and moist at the same time and to die for. It’s still hot and so alcohol is avoided while we eat. Calma is inhabited by eight or so cats who do their best to look cute for scraps. They get nothing from me. I feel sorry for the one-eyed cat, but I bet he was asking for it.
We have a little walk away from Calma and the area of tourist apartments, bars and tavernas that cluster around 16. There’s not a lot to see but we bump into Tanya (not sure on the spelling) from Victoria who is on her way home after a day-shift at the bar. She says I look tired (what she actually says is ‘you’re not exciting’) and that Siggy looks brown. I am tired, Siggy is brown. It’s hard work doing nothing all day. The return to Blighty is looming and seems to throw a shadow over the evening. Tanya’s comment, even if lost in translation, knocks out what little wind was left in my sails and I walk back to the hotel with Siggy to get an early night. It’s quite possible that no alcohol was consumed today.
couchmagpie 