There seems to be a pattern

1. Wake up to the yells of the fishmonger outside the hotel yelling things about calamari in Greek.
2. Shake your fist at the window and utter one of the ten Greek words you know: malaka..
3. Retrieve bed sheet from floor and wrap around naked self, toga-like, in a futile attempt at covering sweating nakedness.
4. Put on sunglasses.
5. Open shutters and breathe in calamari/sea smell.
6. Emerge blinking from whitewashed bedroom.
7. Stumble on cats #45, #73 and #47 that are currently lying down in the corridor, blending in with the carpet. Make your way downstairs.
8. Step over a score of lesbians sunning themselves in various states of undress on the deck. Swap glasses for darker ones so they can’t catch you leering/staring/sniggering.
9. Sink into one the chairs overlooking the unrelenting expanse of blue.
10. Eat yoghurt with honey, fruit and the ubiquitous hardboiled egg, surrounded by felines #64, #69 and omnipresent #45. Later, to simplify things, we’ll call them all George, except for a bit black moggy I’ll name Moriarty, and a skinny one that’ll become Hercules.
11. The stray dogs will also be called George.
12. Cover body in SPF 20. Swap homemade toga for bikini and elegantly wrapped sarong.
13. Go to naked beach and lose the whole lot.
14. Paddle. Fall in. Swim. Read. Swim. Tan. Get the little rocks out of your crack.
15. Decide to go back to the room and take a ‘nap’. Get little rocks out of your lover’s crack.
16. Spend the rest of the day swimming, attempting showers under a futile trickle of cold water, sitting by the sea, drinking ouzo, stumbling over Georges, reading, or listening to Jacqui, like in this particular extract:

I find that when I go on holiday I forget how big my breasts are. They’re around, but I forget. I think I’m a B cup. In real life I know that I’m a woman of substance, but here I don’t give a toss. They are falling out of my top, oh well. That’s going to end up on your blog, isn’t it. Better keep quiet.

All in all, a holiday well spent.