Ach, Hellas, I've been away too long. I'm fed up of England. I bought a ticket on Sunday morning and am going back to Greece in September, when the university summer courses are over, for a fix of undisguised emotion and unapologetic chaos. This will be an antidote to the tight sphincters and hidden mess of England, where people just pretend they are efficient and have to keep on being reminded to be so with vapid slogans:
'Centre of Excellence'
'Working together for better Health'
'Dynamic Teachers Wanted', etc.
Just reverse the meanings of these cliches to see how fatuous they are:
'South Kesteven District Council: Not giving a Monkey's'
'Jaded old Farts Required'.
God, I might even manage to feel benevolent to a sullen Vassilopoulos check-out girl after four years of the poor sods at Marks and Sparks, where some shiny-arsed twat with an MBA and an 'O' level in Language Mangling has decreed that check-out persons shall behave with obsequious garrulousness. 'Thank you for waiting. Any cash back for you today for you at all today? Did you need a bag for you at all for you today? Are you OK with packing? Lovely, I'll just lie down and you can wipe your feet on me.'
I am getting into the mood already. Here is Savina Yannatou again, singing a wedding song from Kalymnos, evocative of astonishingly strong early morning sun, coral pink light on a mill-pond sea, and the smell of bread and cinnamon wafting on the breeze from bakers up with the larks.