Sunday, 14 June 2015

A Cretan Affair

You don’t know how much trouble I had typing that title.  The word ‘cretin’ was typed at least three times before I furiously backspaced one final time to carefully watch what my fingers were doing.
          But I digress.  My blog has been silent because, like most adulterous people, I sneaked off.  Well, I had the grace to tell the husband.  I just didn’t tell him all the nitty-gritty…like being seduced by a whisper of warm breath on the neck, or staring into the very soul of my lover.  And before you gasp in horror, I’m talking about Crete.  Yes, I was unfaithful to good ol’ Blighty, turning my back on the usual summer of sunny spells interspersed with heavy showers and a sudden need to put the heating on in June.  Legging it to Gatwick Airport, I wasn’t alone in this duplicitous act.  My sister came too.
          My sis is currently…well…going through stuff, and she needed a break.  And what better excuse does a big sister need to look after her little sister when a spot of foreign sun is involved?
          And so it began…this delicious affair with an island steeped in history and handsome Greek Gods.  We had grand ideas of checking out all sorts of places, going on a boat trip and sipping cocktails from the all-inclusive bar.  It didn’t quite work out that way.  As I said, my sis is going through stuff and it was as much as she could do to crawl to the swimming pool in the morning and her bed at the end of the day.  I did manage to steer her into the bar most evenings before dinner, but as she’s not a drinker, this wasn’t a roaring success.  Not that I’m a big drinker, but I do like a glass of wine when on my holibobs.  However, there is no joy in having a glass of wine all by yourself with a teetotaller drumming her fingers.  The result was always the same – me tossing the wine down my neck in thirty seconds flat on an empty stomach.  By the time I staggered into the dining room I was always having a head rush and somewhat blotto.
          ‘You wanna drink?’ the waitress would ask, hovering by our table with notepad in hand.
          ‘Yes please, water,’ my sister would crisply say.
          I would then have a huge glass of water so that by the time I walked over to the area where mass catering was taking place, I was once again stone cold sober.  Half way through the week I did finally persuade my sis to join me in a drink.  She went slightly berserk and had a soda water with lime cordial.
          Every evening we would chat to the ‘beautiful people’…the entertainment staff who were all gorgeous looking and made you wish you were thirty years younger.
          ‘Tonight it is salsa dancing.’
          ‘Lovely,’ I replied.
          ‘Good heavens, is that the time?’ my sis interrupted.
          ‘Is it late?’
          ‘Yes.  Quarter past eight.’
          Whereupon my sis would retire to her bed, a vision in sleep mask and ear plugs, and lay comatose for twelve hours.  I didn’t mind really, although I’d tease her about it.  The Land of Nod is a place we retreat to when life gets a bit lumpy.  And I was more than happy to hop into my own bed, a vision in face cream and lip balm, to scribble away on the current work-in-progress which has had more interruptions than…I can’t think of an appropriate simile so will leave you to think of one instead.
          Actually, tell a lie, we did do one activity.  Retail therapy, but Cretan style.  This involved a long lazy walk into nearby Ag Nik, which was quaint and charming and far removed from the throbbing party place it becomes in August.  We explored shops sporting all manner of goodies – from jewellers to shoes, and clothes to handbags.  And we both bought a Michael Kors handbag.  Well, okay, a fake Michael Kors handbag.  And fake Michael Kors sunglasses…and fake Gucci shoes…and ‘diamond’ bracelets.  I do love a bit of bling.
          And it was nice to have a fifty-something Greek ‘God’ (well, he had his own teeth and hair) call out, ‘Lovely ladies…nice eyes,’ and dutifully simper back.  We all like a bit of a flirt (don’t we?).  But the real knee-tremble stuff happened when you walked on the beach with sand so soft it caressed your toes, and the sea called invitingly making you embrace it at a run with arms flung wide, and the sun tickled your skin so you tingled from the inside out.  Which reminds me (and apologies in advance, but it’s a naughty joke!).
          A woman was having an affair while her husband was at work.  One day, while the boyfriend was in bed with her, she heard her husband’s car pull up outside the house.
          ‘Hurry! My husband’s home early.  Climb out the window!’
          ‘I can’t climb out the window,’ the boyfriend protested. ‘It’s raining out there.’
          ‘If you don’t climb out the window, my husband will punch you.’
          So the boyfriend grabbed his clothes and climbed out the window.
          As he ran down the street in pouring rain, he quickly discovered he’d run right into the middle of the town’s annual marathon, so he started to run along with the others, attempting to blend in as best as possible – he was naked after all.
          ‘Do you always run in the nude?’ asked a fellow runner.
          ‘Oh yes,’ he replied, somewhat out of breath. ‘It feels so wonderfully free.’
          Another runner moved alongside.  ‘Do you always run whilst carrying your clothes under one arm?’
          ‘Absolutely,’ he replied breathlessly.  ‘I can get dressed at the end of the run and go straight home!’
          Then a third runner cast his eyes a little lower and queried, ‘Do you always wear a condom when you run?’
          ‘Nope…just when it’s raining…’

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