Thursday, March 29/2018

To the Blacksmith Restaurant in the evening with Bill and Jane and Harry and Ailsa. Their meze is excellent and the place is humming full. Fourteen dishes, including a deep fried halloumi with a subtlehoney coating, much nicer than that may sound. As always, far too much to eat, but that's never quite so guilt inducing with H and A, who always come equipped with plastic bags for the leftovers for their many rescue animals. Mild outside as we leave, and the candle shaped light arrangements over the streets seem to go well with Easter - except that they must be, as the red bows suggest, still lighting the town centre as they did at Christmas.

Wednesday, March 28/20018

Maggi over to show us her photos from recent Sri Lankan trip. And full of stories, from wonderful Sri Lankan guide to visit with Sama, who was her friend here in Cyprus when she was working as a maid. Incredibly sad story. Sama worked here for years, underpaid and poorly treated, sending all she made home to Sri Lanka to her mother and husband who were raising her now teenage daughter. Not an uncommon scenario for Filipina and Sri Lankan women here. When she finally got to quit her job and return, her husband was killed almost immediately in a road accident and her mother died shortly afterward following surgery. And Sama with virtually no pension and not much desire to live. So a very mixed trip for M. But many pix, enough actually that her laptop runs out of battery, so to be continued on Saturday.

Tuesday, March 27/2018

Missing child described in police bulletin as white, male, 4" tall. Fortunately found by the time I see Facebook requests to be on the lookout, as first involuntary response is that 4 inch high boy might be difficult to spot.

Monday, March 26/2018

Cyprus Mail notes that Cyprus, unlike most of the western world, is not expelling its Russian diplomats.  Not astonishing, considering that Cyprus has benefitted financially from a very close relationship with Russia. As indeed has the UK, which is playing a more contortionist game - expelling the diplomats, keeping the oligarchs, and trying to ignore the money laundering.

Sunday, March 25/2018

Today is a national holiday, but not one that transfers to the Monday when it falls on a Sunday.  So are the supermarkets open? Low on bread, though not urgent. I phone Sklavenites, the nearest to inquire - one of those silly situations where their answering the phone is itself the answer to the question, which must be asked anyway because hanging up on someone is rude. Yes, they're open. But we opt not to go anyway because of horrific levels of dust in the air, fine particulate matter blowing in from the Sahara. It's been a frequent problem this winter, and clearly - or rather unclearly - not one the government can do anything about. The matter is so fine that face masks don't prevent inhalation, not that we're tempted, and it can be a significant cause of cardiopulmonary damage. We can check pollution levels on a site that gives hourly readings for Larnaca - and plenty of other world cities if we want to see how much cleaner the air is in London or see how much we resemble Beijing. Actually quite a handy site as looking out the window is an indicator but not a very precise one.

Saturday, March 24/2018

Take the bus out to th British base at Dekhelia to meet up with Bill and Jane. The restaurant there is known for its fish and chips. Fish must surely be frozen, but beautifully flaky and light, crisp batter. Then back to B&J's to watch the last of The Crown. And wonder as before. Events obviously right - but what about the slant? Was Philip that petulant? The Queen Mother that manipulative? Clementine Churchill was indeed responsible for burning Graham Sutherland's portrait of her husband, which wasn't actually hers to burn. We're old enough collectively to remember some bits and Joe and Bill good enough on the history, e.g. Suez crisis, to watch with a critical eye. Makes for Google as you go viewing.

Friday, March 23/2018

News today which really shouldn't have to be news at all. From the Cyprus Mail:

"Police in the British base in Dhekelia on Friday said they have dealt a blow to bird trappers and highlighted their commitment to stamping out poaching by destroying a large number of mist nets and bird imitating devices, all seized from bird trappers over the past year. In addition, more than 60 kilometres of illegal irrigation pipes were used to support the illegal trapping of songbirds have also been removed."

Trapping, often with illegal nets or by using glue that makes them stick to a surface, of songbirds is very common, though illegal, in Cyprus. More enthusiasm for combatting it in the British base area than in the rest of the country. Animal welfare not apparently a cultural priority historically, and charity shops that support animal rescue almost invariably run by Brits. There is, of course, a market for these birds, equally illegal obviously. They are considered a delicacy and some restaurants as well as individuals are happy to serve them surreptitiously to interested customers.

Thursday, March 22/2018

Last trip (this year) to Famagusta market. Always a sensual pleasure. Colours, shapes, scents - tastes if you wish. Most of the produce is local, but nuts from as far away as California and some of the bananas from South America. 

Cabbages so enormous it's easy to see how the tales of babies being found under cabbage leaves began. Quite a lot of flowers and bedding plants. Clothing and dry goods as well, some of it surprisingly inexpensive. 

The Turkish lira has dropped nearly 22% against the euro over the past year, making life very difficult for Northern Cypriots, especially since many major purchases, such as cars, require hard currency. Nevertheless, we do notice that, despite sanctions, there are more late model cars and new buildings than there were seventeen years ago when we first came here. And quite a lot of trading seems to be taking place with Europe, Asia and the Americas. Through Turkey? 

Lunch at Minder, the little restaurant with village style home cooking, only steps away from the back of the market. There is a sheet of daily specials, but the owner also lifts the lids of the metal tubs to show us the possibilities. The most interesting are artichokes, with what seems to be rings of minced stuffing between the leaves. The effect is rather pretty, actually, but artichoke leaves are not nearly as nice as the (ridiculously labour intensive) sautéed hearts that J does occasionally. Settle for meatballs that remind me of ones J's mother used to make. Lovely meal.

Wednesday, March 21/2018

Jane and Bill here for noon meal. They frequently have their main meal of the day at midday. Suspect it may be connected with aging, as we've known others to adopt the practice. Not denial that prevents me. It's just that having breakfast after coffee and the digital newspapers and second cup can mean it's ten o'clock. Hurrying to make the main meal for noon seems onerous - and slightly ridiculous. And works rather poorly with any meal that requires more than two hours prep and cooking time. But a good idea for today as they need to be in Larnaca anyway. Borscht, salmon fillets, and fresh strawberries with ice cream. Can't imagine why we don't have borscht more often here. Almost all veg extremely cheap and beets can be bought vacuum, four to a pack, already peeled and boiled. J does point out, fairly enough, that the flavour is better if the beets are cooked in the soup rather than precooked. He's right but there's none of the caught red handed bit this way. Very clean.

Tuesday, March 20/2018

First day of spring and also, apparently, International Happiness Day. The Cyprus Mail captions it oddly, saying that Cyprus is the 61st happiest country. Could be worse; that is in the top half, but that's not how they put it. The annual index ranks countries on happiness with income, healthy life expectancy, social support, freedom, trust, and generosity as the variables. Like all countries Cyprus looks first at itself and then at its significant others, citing Greece at 79th and Turkey at 74th, as well as Russia 59th, Israel 11th, US 18th and the UK 19th. Then the stinger, in a paragraph all to itself: "The report also includes the north of Cyprus which held 58th position".

Monday, March 19/2018

Meet J down at the waterfront. It's 25 degrees today, warmer than I like it, though I know better than to say that to anyone in Canada - or in UK during this repeat cold spell. And indeed can see how soon we'll be missing Cyprus's warmth. Though the thing is that official temperatures are in the shade, of course, which leaves it quite a bit hotter than that in the sun. But Harry's has its umbrellas up and we do have our coffee in the shade. Quite a few tourists around now and umbrellas up on the beach. Tourists in shorts but locals certainly not, and in fact often wearing two sweaters or hooded jackets. Something we've always wondered about. Understandable that people from different parts of the world learn to feel comfortable at different temperatures, but surely some physical phenomena are standard, like the temperature at which people perspire. One of life's mysteries. 

As we're having coffee J spots the bird lady across the road. She's often seen in the centre of town wearing long black skirts and sitting or walking with several birds on her head and shoulders. People do take photos, but it's not at all clear that posing for them, and perhaps accepting contributions, is her main motivation. Certainly she's never aggressive about approaching anyone. We stop at the cancer patients charity shop to donate a set of Greek coffee cups (cups are Cypriot but coffee in them would be Greek - or Turkish - same coffee with nomenclature varying politically). Simply too heavy to consider taking back with us. 

Cut across the courtyard in front of St Lazarus Church, festooned with pendants and flags - Greek, Cypriot, and the black two-headed eagle on gold background representing the "Ecumenical Patriarchate of Constantinople", in other words the Greek Orthodox Church. By the wall a woman is painting St Lazarus, often the subject of photographs as well.

Sunday, March 18/2018

Sunday lunch at Jane and Bill's today. Bill has produced a terrine - chicken, bacon and sausage meat  this time, and nicer, actually than the rabbit one. Lovely to look at too. Can see that the horrible stick-your-finger-through-it bacon at home would do it no favours but wouldn't mind giving it a try. Can't be only old age and failing memory that makes us think side bacon used to be better. Certainly less water infused. And there's no doubt that streaky bacon here and in the UK is much leaner than what we get at home. 

Watch the next bit of The Crown on Netflix, taking us up to the coronation and the breaking up of the relationship between Princess Margaret and Peter Townsend. Can remember watching the coronation on Uncle John's TV, long before we had a set. Not, of course, in colour. And not live either. No satellite transmission, but the video specially flown out to Canada immediately after the ceremony.

Saturday, March 17/2018 🍀

Should we wish to buy property in Cyprus - which we don't - we should have done it twenty years ago, and it would probably have tripled in value. Not a bad rate of return regardless of upkeep and taxes. One good reason for not having done so is the endless fiasco of the title deeds, or lack of same. When we first began coming here we were puzzled to see advertisements for houses or flats "with title deeds", our previous experience leading us to believe that the title deeds were what you were handed when you bought the property, or at least when you finished paying for it. 

Not so in Cyprus. Despite various ineffective efforts of the government to solve the problem owning a (fully paid for) house without the title deeds is very common, possibly more common than possessing said deeds. This applies to Harry and Ailsa's house. Also to Bill and Jane's, though Bill makes regular visits to the land registry office where they call him Mr William and assure him that the paper work has all been done. He points out that this has been going on for years and he will be eighty-five next birthday. But assurances are all he gets. And so another government attempt at solution falls somewhat short of convincing. Actually, this attempt seems to come from the opposition, which is not necessarily more encouraging. The Cyprus Mail summarises:

"In the absence of tangible government action, main opposition Akel said on Wednesday it will be preparing two proposals designed to iron out kinks in a 2015 law that sought to sort out the title deed mess, offering relief to so-called trapped buyers. The law sought to resolve the problems for homeowners who had paid for their properties but were not issued with their title deeds either because it was mortgaged by the developer, or the state could not go ahead with the transfer because of outstanding taxes. Since developers’ land and buildings were counted as assets that need to be offset against their debt to banks, this gave lenders a claim on people’s properties that had been mortgaged by developers."

This does provide some level of explanation for the bizarre state of affairs, but Cypriots have learned not to hold their breath.

Friday, March 16/2018

Intend to drop off a couple of books and a shirt at the convent school’s charity shop, largely because it’s conveniently located on my way to meet J for coffee. It has extremely nice volunteers running it and also very low prices, which is not actually a good thing, because the point of my visit is not really to support the school but to dispose of items that we can’t easily take with us or store here, and being presented with desirable books at twenty-five cents apiece is not helpful. 

But they also have very limited hours and I seem to have missed them. So head over to St Helena’s charity shop. It also has limited hours but Friday from ten till one is included. And I’d rather support them as their shop proceeds go to feeding the hungry. Get into long conversation with a new volunteer, triggered by a query about my accent. She, it seems, would love to move to Canada. What do I know about immigration. The answer really is not much for sure. Last looked into it fairly superficially about twenty years ago when a Scots cousin expressed some interest. 

It gets more complicated. She likes the cold although her young Tunisian husband might not so much. He’s a hard worker, though, in construction. Feel sorry for her, both because her mother has rejected the marriage (on grounds of religion and some rather sweeping assumptions about terrorism) and because the UK, which has to take her back, won’t allow her husband in unless they have far higher income than they can hope for. Have heard this story before, the last time from a woman whose daughter worked for a UK supermarket and was married to an American with an army pension. Her income not high enough to sponsor him and his pension not, apparently, considered. Suggest that best odds might be to find a company looking for construction workers in a location with a labour shortage. Haven’t the heart to say I don’t think it will be easy, or even that the last spell of horribly disruptive British weather was neither cold nor remarkably snowy by Canadian standards. Heartbreaking, though, how modest many people’s hopes and expectations are. How little they ask and how unlikely they are to find it. “He’s a hard worker,” she says, “And I can do anything”.

Thursday, March 15/2018

Reading a new afternoon (as in enough daylight to read by) read aloud book. Alice Munro’s The Progress of Love, as acquired at St Helena’s book sale. Thought we had it at home, and maybe we do, but in any case I can’t remember the stories. Which could always be more a commentary on my memory than proof that we don’t own a copy. Good reading anyway, as always with Munro. Also picked up another Nobel prize winner’s book at the same sale - Naguib Mahfouz’s Midaq Alley. We read part of his Cairo trilogy years ago and it was excellent. Hope we have time to fit this one in as well before we leave. It’s also set in Cairo and apparently his most popular. Published in 1947.

Dinner in the evening at Apostolos Andreas Restaurant. Ailsa and Harry, and Bill and Jane bring with them Sheila and Nick. Retired, and splitting their time between England and Cyprus. He now teaching part time in Nicosia at English school apparently in need of a senior geography teacher. Though that doesn't appear to be the primary reason for their part time Cyprus residence. We've actually met Sheila before, though quite a long time ago. Massively too much food, which is good news for Ailsa and Harry's many rescue dogs and cats, who will be the beneficiaries.

Wednesday, March 14/2018

Cyprus, legendary birthplace of Aphrodite, makes some attempt to promote itself as a venue for tourist weddings, and no doubt there are tourists, and certainly locals, who manage to wed without benefit of tourist board assistance. The climate is kind and there are plenty of picturesque spots for wedding photos. A frequent one is St Lazarus Church, and seafront shots are also popular, particularly on the little pier just east of the church. In fact occasionally when we are having coffee at Harry's a wedding party will trek past on the short walk from the pier to St Lazarus. Today J, out for his beach walk, spots a photo op at the pier with bride and several bridesmaids but no groom or groomsmen. Assuming this is, unusually, a pre-wedding picture.

Tuesday, March 13/2018

To Harry's Café for coffee - and a small unexpected slice of chocolate cake. The canary cage is out as usual, and the canary singing away. As the owner says, the music is free. J always hears the song as happy, but I'm less sure. We don't speak canary, and it is caged. A pigeon lands on the table next to the bird cage, spying some crumbs there, and the canary is not happy, though somewhat short of panicked. It retreats to the top perch and keeps a wary eye out.

There's rarely anyone in the flat next to us but it does seem to be occupied. Trainers permanently on the little balcony and window sometimes open. Tonight, though, there are sounds of a television, not loud enough to be disturbing but arousing our curiosity. There is also an unmistakeable scent of weed. This is interesting because the laws on marijuana are pretty draconian in Cyprus. While we couldn't care less whether our neighbour is using, it seems reckless of him to assume that no one in the building would be the sort to call the police and self-righteously report illegal drug use.

Monday, March 12/2018

Heading, indirectly, to Kakopetria, a picturesque village in the Troodos Mountains. Jane comes here after swimming and Bill is to take the bus in from Pyla and join us. He arrives a little after ten, somewhat put out by having waited endlessly for the one bus that goes down their road. Last time it was fifteen minutes early so he timed himself accordingly, only for it to be ten minutes late this time. As that bus only goes every hour or hour and a half, catching it can be a procedure. 

We're off to Nicosia first, where Jane has a cushion to return to IKEA. The store is a newish addition to Cyprus and we've not been before and stay just long enough for Jane to do the return and us to pick up a catalogue. Entirely in Greek as, more surprisingly, are all the signs in the store - unlike road signs or those in supermarkets. But we can look at the pictures and see the prices. 

Then out of the city no west. We're actually following the border just south of it, although we're really reminded of that only when Bill spots a UN lookout spot. And Jane a sign showing that we're only a few kilometres from Morphou (Guzulyurt to the Turkish), and nearly on the west coast. We're gaining altitude at the same time and can at times see the sea to the north of the island. 

Kakopetria is a lovely little village nestled in a valley. We've been here before but it was three years ago. Quite a compelling place, though. One of those spots that leaves you thinking I could stop and live here, this would be as good as anywhere. An odd thought for a gypsy like me. (And yes, I know the word is politically incorrect but it still feels so much more romantic than the alternatives, and traveller is terribly imprecise). The restaurant is called The Mill, and there once was a mill here. Now restaurant and hotel. With probably the nicest trout I've ever tasted - although it's had competition! We all know we're going to order the trout but read the menu anyway out of curiosity and for general inspiration. 

Then down the steep and windy roads and home via Limassol. A reminder of just how small this island country is. Between ten o'clock and six we've gone from seaside to mountains and back, been to the three largest cities and looked down on the Mediterranean on the north coast before lunch and the south coast after.

Sunday, March 11/2018

Sunday lunch at Cambanella’s. The bus, as usual, gets us there a few minutes early, so we take a walk around a field, where it turns out the poppies are just appearing. Spurs discussion between J and me about whether I prefer British or Canadian Remembrance Day poppies. And I’m torn. Initially, British poppies looked faded and a bit drab to me. But they’re a lot more like real poppies in colour. Canadian ones have the virtue of being what I grew up with, but they’re too crimson, and I’m starting to regard the velvety texture combined with the brilliant colour as a bit vulgar - kind of Elvis in gold paint on black velvet. But the ones in the field are lovely. 

After lunch over to a small freshwater pool - actually where the drainage ditches empty with water from the fields. Moorhens not in evidence, but a still egret poised watching the fish. And some of the fish are surprisingly large - perhaps eighteen inches - as they surface in the murky water to take the bread J throws them. It’s just metres away from the walkway along the sea. A fresh water lagoon.

Saturday, March 10/2018

Lovely as it might be to have servants, I'd be bad at it. Winters in Cyprus are the closest we come, with our monthly rent paying for daily cleaning and twice weekly linen change as well as the one bedroom hotel apartment. The cleaning consists of emptying the garbage, providing the toilet paper, sweeping and washing the tile floors and cleaning the bathroom fixtures. If we didn't make the beds the cleaners probably would do, but like all the other (Scandinavian) long stayers in the hotels we've lived in we regard that as our responsibility. (In fact one Swedish woman of our slight acquaintance was the cause of scandalised gossip amongst long stay Scandinavians for leaving the beds for the maids.) 

Cleaning has never been problematic in the other places we've stayed - pretty thorough and occurring either six or seven days a week. Here it has always been rather lick and a promise, and on the fourth floor the sisters (in the familial not religious sense) got it down to about three minutes by virtue - though virtue doesn't seem like quite the right word - of never vacuuming. One of the advantages of the move to the first floor was that the floors were all tile so that the sitting room as well as the kitchen and loo got washed daily. At first, that is. Then the odd day of no show, then two, and eventually three. In the end almost a guarantee that if we did not go out there would be no service, possibly with the self-deluding excuse of not disturbing us. 

At which point I feel compelled to mention the problem to Kiki, the receptionist, so as not to report Venera the maid, whom I like, to Management, whom I don't much. Putting it as tactfully as possible - has the cleaning schedule perhaps changed? Kiki is clearly appalled at the slackness, and presumably this will solve the problem. The sad thing is that we don't usually tip - for what is the worst housekeeping service we've ever experienced - which may have led to worse service. It's also possible, even probable, that the cleaners are underpaid, but given a fairly hefty rental increase this year we're unenthusiastic about assuming the burden of subsidising the staff. Ah well, servant problem not one I'm blessed with at home. 

As we're having lunch, Kiki comes up to the flat with a large bag of oranges. Left for us at reception. By a man - no she doesn't know who - an old man. Mystery solved when Ailsa calls to say that Harry has taken us some oranges (they have a tree). I say we'd been wondering but didn't get far by asking for a description. Ailsa agrees that there would have been no obvious descriptors - he's not tall, short, fat, or excessively thin. Don't feel compelled to mention Kiki having said old. Don't actually think of Harry as old, but suppose that at eighty the description is not completely unfair.

Friday, March 9/2018

 Partly out of interest and partly because the nearby British forces base provides us with quite a bit of BBC radio, and partly because we're much closer to the UK than to North America in time zone, we follow quite a bit of British news. Heavily Brexit for weeks, with continuing bits of complaint about the effects of austerity on health and social programming. 

Now, for the past several days, a lot of dramatic focus on the attempted murder by nerve poison of the former Russian spy Skripal and his daughter. Trying to remember whether the somewhat similar poisoning twelve years ago of the former spy Litvinenko received quite the same non-stop coverage. We were in London at that time and certainly it was a major news story, made more dramatic by the fact that for days he was conscious and contributing clues to the murder mystery until inevitable death overtook him. 

The cases are not precisely analogous, because Skripal was a double agent who betrayed his fellow Russian spies for cash and was convicted of treason and then given to the West as part of a later prisoner exchange. Litvinenko reacted against Russian corruption and sought asylum in the West. This does make him a somewhat more sympathetic character, but it also makes him a more likely Kremlin target. The convention has been that those who were part of prisoner exchanges are not targeted afterward by the governments that originally employed them, as this would make future spy swaps pointless - no one would participate. However either high level secret service personnel or those involved in illegal international activity such as money laundering might well have wanted revenge, wished to make a very public warning and had some access to highly restricted chemicals. In that case the perpetrators would be Russian but not Russia, I.e. the Kremlin. 

Even this much analysis is too much for the BBC, which endlessly repeats the basic story of finding the two victims, the fact that an unspecified nerve poison is involved and threats of sanctions that must be taken against Russia if it is indeed found to be the culprit. More than once an hour, and always as the lead story, even in the absence of new information. Brexit has disappeared from the news entirely, at a point at which the UK is more or less paralysed by government infighting and the EU has frozen talks until there is an amended proposal to discuss. It has not become any less urgent, but is more than failing the 'if it bleeds it leads' test. 

In fact, following the cui bono principle, one can't help observing (tasteless as it may be to joke about these things) that the chief immediate beneficiary of the Skripal poisoning is probably Theresa May, whose failings have been replaced in the media by a great deal of posturing about the UK's intent to identify those responsible for the poisoning and bring them to justice. The outrage at an attack on British soil is perfectly legitimate, but twenty years from now the story will be all but forgotten while the UK will have been majorly determined by whatever the Brexit negotiations create.

Thursday, March 8/2018

Thursday, and the dust in the air much reduced, as promised. Warm (definitely T-shirt weather) and windy. Meet J down on the promenade and we stop for coffee on their balcony. By far the best - and cheapest - coffee in town. Prefer Harry's Café, but the thought that they might not have put the large umbrellas up for shade is a deterrent. Bad timing at McD. It's 11:30 and crammed with teenagers. Half holiday? Teacher's strike? Student walkout? The last two not nearly as uncommon as they might be in most countries, but no way of knowing. They're all in pretty good humour as befits the newly released, but it makes for about a fifteen minute wait. 

Good people watching site though. Quite a lot of people on the beach, with several in the water. Sea temperature today 17.6. (August average 28.1). So any warm, sunny day is good swimming. The poles for the beach umbrellas are now planted on the beach by the dozen, but umbrella rental has not yet begun.

Wednesday, March 7/2018

Early to Prinos to get some fruit for lunch. Early by our standards at least; Prinos has been open since 6:30, as always, and is unlikely to consider eight o'clock early. And it will be open until early evening. When we first started coming to Cyprus all but the smallest corner shops closed mid-afternoon on Wednesdays and Saturdays, an inconvenient old time practice backed by legislation that the larger enterprises fought, eventually successfully. We have pears and grapefruit and oranges at home but add apples,  kiwi and grapes (imported) and strawberries (local). Citrus fruits are beautiful all winter here and there have been local greenhouse strawberries for a month now, but grape and fresh fig seasons end in late autumn, about the time we arrive. There are local apples but they're never as good as the imports, our favourites being Pink Lady from Greece or (preferably) Italy.

The artichokes are in season now and J has bought half a dozen. He's learned by dint of watching a seller at the market, to trim away everything but the heart and carves the tiny slices off the choke to sauté in olive oil. Very highly labour intensive - probably ten to fifteen minutes an artichoke for the trimming and carving - and the yield is small, but lovely and rich. An appetiser today when Jane and Bill join us for lunch, but also a luxury topping for pizza on rare occasions.

Tuesday, March 6/2018

Cooking the vegetables so that they only have to be reheated tomorrow when Bill and Jane come to lunch. Necessary because we only have two burners and a microwave. The frying pan is good stainless steel but not very big, which means endless panfulls. Strips of red pepper, long dark green beans, hard boiled free range eggs cut lengthwise with their dark orange yellow eyes. Time consuming but such an aesthetic pleasure. Later J trims the artichokes and slices the hearts. Truly labour intensive, but I read to him from the third volume of Alan Bennett's diaries as he's sautéing them. Bennet's diaries always such gems it feels they should be saved for dessert - but wifi off, so options limited.

Monday, March 5/2018

Back to the air pollution. And as usual the haze in the sky is particulate matter, most probably dust from the Sahara. Improving by Thursday, according to the paper. It's been a dusty year. No truly horrible day, but a number of warnings. No one to blame, really, either. Not much to be done about desert sand and wind.

Sunday, March 4/2018

Invited to Jane and Bill's for Sunday lunch. Beautiful roast leg of lamb and we eat outside as usual. Susan and David here again, and, happily, Maureen from down the terrace. She's going to London in a couple of weeks to visit her daughter and has taken our UK mobile number so we can meet up for a drink. After the others have gone we watch first part of The Crown, with Claire Foy as a very young Queen Elizabeth. Well done, but liberties? Was the Queen Mother really that self-centred? Who knows.

Saturday, March 3/2018

Caption in today’s Cyprus Mail reads “Man arrested illegally entering Republic by jumping off wall “. The man was a Kurd and had obviously landed, by air or more likely sea, in the North - where he would probably have been made more welcome. Although as far as the Republic (the South) is concerned any landing in the North is illegal. However, for whatever reason, he chose to enter the South by jumping from the old Venetian walls, exiting via a small park atop the wall in broad daylight at 2:30 in the afternoon. Unsubtle enough to make one wonder about his mental state, although if he intended to apply for asylum or assistance he would have had questioning to face anyway. And jumped is undoubtedly an overly dramatic way of putting it - scrambled more likely. 

We remember being in that park looking down, on the only visit when we ourselves entered illegally (from the point of view of the South), taking the ferry from Turkey to Kyrenia. It was a very odd feeling going to Nicosia and looking down on the South where we had stayed the previous month, barred from entry. The border is much freer now than it was in 2001, but only non-EU tourists who land in the South can cross freely from North to South. And yes, they would know. Your passport would give you away.

Friday, March 2/2018

Theresa May's much anticipated speech on Brexit - part whatever - proving largely that the driving force, as it was for her predecessor - is the unpleasant task of trying to satisfy a hopelessly divided and antagonistic cabinet. Jonathan Freedland in the Guardian has the metaphor for it: 

'When I was a young child I had a tantrum at a motorway cafe. My parents ordered for everyone, selecting baked beans on toast for me. I stamped my foot and demanded I choose for myself. I then proceeded to read the entire menu, holding up everyone, including an increasingly impatient waitress. Finally, I announced my choice: I would have baked beans on toast.

The memory of that episode returned to me while watching Theresa May give her big Brexit speech at Mansion House today. The speech was praised in some quarters for being serious and, by the standards of her government, pretty detailed. The main takeaway was that the prime minister had finally bidden farewell to “cakeism”, admitting that we couldn’t both leave the single market and have unchanged access to it. “Life is going to be different,” she warned.

But the speech also suggested that Brexit could end up rather like my strop at Little Chef. We would put ourselves and the rest of Europe through a great ordeal, only to end up with an arrangement rather like the one we could have had anyway, all for the sake of feeling in control. Except that, in this case, the end result would be both inferior to, and much more costly than, the dish originally on offer.'

Indeed.

Thursday, March 1/2018

Tourist arrested for drunk driving. Normally the locals have significantly worse driving habits than the tourists. In fact, today as I'm walking to the bank a car travelling north on the very busy Makarios Avenue pulls across the southbound lane midblock, forcing a honking car to brake in order to avoid a collision, and proceeds to park on the far side of the road (heading the wrong direction, of course). 

But the arrest of a tourist is unusual. Tickets, yes. It's an open secret that car hire licence plates (coloured red to alert those who need to know) are much more likely to be ticketed for minor infractions. This is a small island and no police officer wishes to find that the ticket recipient is a friend of a relative or relative of a friend. Besides, it's only right that those who can afford to holiday should contribute to the state coffers. 

So the caption 'tourist arrested for drunk driving' arouses immediate cynicism. Does drunk mean fractionally over the conservative .05 blood alcohol, and were the red plates the reason he was stopped. No, and no. The 28 year old visitor attracted patrol car attention by speeding in a town at midnight without lights, overtaking two cars stopped at a red light and driving through said red light. Fair cop - obvious cause for investigation. And he was breathalysed at three times the drink drive limit. But also charged with possession of weapons. Two knives (not described), a collapsible baton (?), and a sledgehammer. A sledgehammer? No doubt that it could inflict grievous bodily harm, but is it really a prohibited weapon? Who knew? Fence post installers be warned.

Wednesday, February 28/2018

Haircut day. Me, that is, as J usually cuts his own. Then we meet up in the courtyard of St Helena's Anglican, where the regular end of month used book sale is taking place. It's generally pretty good, as the books are donated disproportionately by British expats about our age. Too many light novels, but often a few gems as well. While browsing, I overhear the following conversation between a man and woman. He has obviously remarked on, and probably recommended, a vegetarian cook book:

She:  (apologetically) I really should be vegetarian, but I’m too weak.

He:   Oh, the problem is people eat too early. I never eat anything after five o’clock. I eat a big     

breakfast though.

She: (probably hoping to avoid further unsolicited advice) Have you ever eaten meat?

He:   Oh yes! I’ve eaten dog. I’ve eaten rat, I’ve eaten mouse.

She:  (weakly) That must have been when you were very hungry.

He:   Oh no! It was for the experience. I like to experience everything!

I do refrain from commenting on the stellar social life he must have, never eating before five and then vegetarian or rat. In all fairness, the vegetarian period seems to have followed, and probably superseded, the rodent period, but he is at pains to point out the voluntary nature of the dog and rat experiences.

On the way home we come across a cat, happily soaking up the sun.

Tuesday, February 27/2018

Flowers are not all that's bright and beautiful along the road on the way to meet up with J for coffee.