Don't Speak

Writing one minute short of the end of the fag-end of August (so far as BST+2 is concerned), while drunk in the bar on Syros that serves as my home from home whenever I'm here. Shortly.. well, for certain values of shortly, I shall stagger in pitch darkness over a steep hill and down an extremely dangerous path on the other side in pitch darkness to my tent on a tiny beach. Life is good and the sun is very definitely shining. The only dark spot on the horizon is that due to being Done at Gatwick for (only slightly but they're tough under the new regime: I'm not sure I quite understand why) overweight handluggage and having to leave some behind I am undoubtedly going to run out of books. Ho hum.