It’s odd, writing this now, obviously retrospetively, based as it is on a few soon-to-be jaded memories and the odd bullet point scribbled in a book that also contains the basis for what will become The Worst Seat in the House. But I’m the kind of blogger that doesn’t like holes in his blog entries.
Meanwhile, over in Tigaki, my bed collapsed last night. I stretched out my legs and managed to kick off whatever the oppositie of a head board is, which was swiftly followed by a crash as the bed frame swiftly fell into contact with the marble floor. In a future autobiography, this entry will be rewritten and the bed collapse will be blamed on Uzo-fuelled sexual athleticism. Just to continue playing with the temporal order, last night we ate authentic Greek nosh in the otherwise rather Indian curry-fixated Sagittarius Restaurant.
By now we have both cycled so far that our asses are suffering intense pain. Quite how this will be told in the autobiography is not yet clear. A man that charged us three Euros each for hiring his beach beds used the universal phrase “Manchester United?” as a way of telling us where we might live. Our shake of the head before we mumbled “York City” meant nothing to him. Today we met Mr Frost, a travelling man in an ice cream van that plies its trade up and down the Tigaki sea front. Frost is, of course, a traditional Greek surname. We have decided that we want to adopt Mr Frost. We also bought some donuts from a man that does not, as yet, have a van or go by the name of Mr Donut. Homer, of course, would be better. His donuts, I add in a fit of Kenneth Williamsness, were massive.
Books read thus far on the holiday as a way of avoiding writing any of The Worst Seat in the House: Douglas Coupland’s Hey, Nostradamus! and half of Hunter S Thompson’s Kingdom of Fear.