The Gods, it seems, have favoured us. With the weather at least. Just when you thought we might be suffering a mild form of collective cabin fever, the clouds lifted and it became altogether more clement. We are dancing in the streets once more. A little more progress on the property front; we’ve got a couple of useful leads. More importantly though, we found a purveyor of falafel at last, though Craig informs me that this offering was ‘mediocre at best’. I’m holding out now until the competition sets up shop in summer.
With the day’s work done, we set off in Danny the Tranny to catch the last pastel hues of the sunset at the lighthouse-capped southern extremity of the island, and for balance, a potentially hazardous stroll through the darkness to the northern tip, on the beach at the base of Oia, where we shared a couple of beers and revisited fragments of songs by Prince and other artistes inhabiting that terrifying sonic landscape, the The Nineteen-Eighties.
We’ve also made more bread and altered the feng shui of our living space, having accepted our fate on that count. The legacy of that fish still curses the interior of the fridge, and the bathroom floor stubbornly refuses to relinquish the omnipresent puddle of dubious origin, but we are happy: we can venture into the great outdoors again.
Frying pan: -1
Embarrasing scenario with electrician when problem with light transpired to be our inabilty to operate a wall switch: +1
Steam-Rollers sat in: +1
Skirmishes with local children: +2