Liadnan

Sorrento v. good, of which more later, though sadly only to be accompanied by the 24 photos that were on the pissy little card that comes with a digital camera, as I appear to have deleted the 90-odd on the large card in a fit of technical incompetence (I haven't actually formatted it so if anyone has any bright ideas let me know, but at present neither camera nor computer seems to think there is anything readable on the card). Arse. All the Pompeii pictures gone for a start.

Arrival at Gatwick somewhat complicated by the non-arrival of my usual ridiculously large rucksack: consequent waiting around and filling in of forms further meaning we missed the last normal train and ended up taking an 80quid cab (for which I expect BA to pay, oh yes) back to Rob and Steph's, they and Fiona having very kindly and patiently sat around and waited while I tried to find out what had happened, along with 20 other similarly baggage-denuded people.

To give them credit, said rucksack arrived at my front door some 45 minutes ago. It appears to have acquired a vile beach towel, rolled up and stuffed into one of the side pockets, but I'm not sure whether anything has been lost*. Silent, however, as to where it had been. Thirty-one years of flying the world and this is the first time this has happened to me. Stelios has never lost a thing of mine, so the next time BA are snippy about budget airlines they can stick it up their collective arse.

Now I'm drinking sherry, vaguely wondering about going to the Notting Hill carnival, and even more vaguely wondering if I can justify a long weekend on my favourite Greek island before finally settling down to the grind. (The answer is no, but...)

*Steph having just rung me to say they'd decided not to go to the Carnival, that mystery at least has been resolved in passing: Adele, having discovered that said vile beach towel could no longer fit into her luggage, and thinking I didn't have enough to carry, shoved it in. All together now: "did you pack this bag yourself, could anyone have interfered with it...?"

Well, I've spent the last two days sunning myself in rural Hampshire (and am pleasantly burnt as a result) with almost all of my family (sister 1 + husband + 3 of their 4 children weren't there but I can still say "most" quite accurately: that's what coming from Irish farming stock means). Spent today becoming mildly sozzled while reading something undemanding (Anne McCaffrey, for my sins) and vaguely listening to the sounds of a gymkhana floating over the village ("numbers 3 and 10, we are waiting for you in the ring..."). Coming back to London rather depressing as a result, lacrimae rerum an' all that. I shall have to become rich simply so I can afford a large house in the country and a flat in London.

On the train on the way back, the woman opposite me was reading a copy of The Rough Guide to Greece, so I ended up feeling homesick for my favourite island as well. Comewhat conflicted here... unless I become very rich I suppose.

When I finally arrived home I decided, for no apparent reason, that I had to find my copy of C.P.Cavafy's poetry. This has involved dismantling half my bookstack, which now lies on the floor. And I have two people coming to stay at different times this week. Anyone know of (a) a carpenter who can build me as many shelves as my walls will take; and (b) a qualified cataloguer?

***

According to two articles I read over the weekend, Michael Howard has now jetted off to his holiday with Anne Robinson and Tony Blair is off to stay with Cliff Richard. Look, if the heads of the two main parties are going to make stupid bets about who can dream up the worse holiday host then I think the least they could do would be to invite Charlie to play too. Anyway, isn't Howard Welsh?

***

I am in a holiday mood, hence my inane ramblings above. Unfortunately I do have to work this week, which I somewhat resent.

I blame Chrysaphi. The first post I read this morning was hers pointing out that KLM have really rather cheap flights to Istanbul throughout July and August. Couple that with Tabouli also planning a visit to Turkey two posts further on; the demise of my grandiose plans to go to Armenia and Georgia; the fact that Dr Lovely is in exam purdah so the half-formed plan of visiting NYC was dead in the water before I'd even broached it with her; and the fact that after a few days of blazing sun it's now vaguely drizzling in London again; and my trigger finger is impatiently hovering over the "book now" button.

I do, of course, have a week of living in a cave villa built into a cliff face in Croatia Sorrento with Rob, Steph, Fiona, Milliesioux and others to look forward to, which will be fab. But what's the point of being a tool of capitalist oppression if you don't go on holiday for more than a week a year? Besides, I'm supposed to be trying to write a novel about Hagia Sophia.

Well, I'm off, for almost a week. Spent most of today sitting on the leads outside my office reading Diana Wynne Jones, and having a small G&T: the liberty of having nothing to do right at the moment because you've been organised enough to get rid of it all already. Off out to celebrate. Tomorrow I shall mostly be sitting around in Primrose Hill and being bohemian. Hurrah.