Do not go gentle into that good night,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

So wrote Dylan Thomas who, I presume, did exactly that when his time came. Hortense isn’t raging but she’s putting up a terrific battle in a war she cannot win. For the pasts five days she has been alternately sleeping (or in a coma?) and struggling on ever weakening legs the few yards from one place to the next. She has had little in he way of nourishment, forcefully fed some vitamin paste and every now and again a few, very few, licks at a mixture of yoghourt and evaporated milk. Her weight must be counted in ounces and I expect the breathing, so shallow as to be hardly noticeable, to stop at any moment. She doesn’t appear to be in any pain and I am sure she will go gently and peacefully into that good night, though every now and again I get accusing looks from those deep sunken eyes as much as to say, this is all your fault, whatever it is that’s happening to me.

Talk about the winds of Crete: we’ve had four days of force nine gales or certainly what feels like force nine gales even if they aren’t. Fortunately the winds are coming from the north and are cool, unlike those we get from Colonel Gaddafi that bring half the Sahara with them when the sky turns orange and everything, buildings, plants, cars, are layered with yellow sand or, if it comes at the same time as rain, yellow mud.

Last night watched the movie, Archangel and came up with the universal cry of not as good as the book. Well, the first part was because it stuck pretty close to the book but in the second part it went off the rails somewhat. I still maintain though, much as I enjoyed reading the book, that there is an enormous flaw in the story. What I can’t understand is why Beria, as soon as he found out about the child’s existence, and with all the resources of the fearsome NKVD at his command, didn’t set out to have it killed then and there, no matter how closely guarded it was. There was also a real humdinger in the train when the notebook was suddenly reintroduced – this after our hero had swum in freezing waters (which surely would have killed him), never got dried off as far as I could see, purchased a coat from a local fisherman to keep himself warm, (still dripping wet?) and the girl had come out of prison and didn’t appear to be full of the necessities. So as soon as the red folder was produced I heard myself saying, “Where did that suddenly come from?” Does the word colander spring to mind?

Nice post today. I always look forward to the post here in Crete, whereas in England I used to dread its arrival as it usually consisted of enormous bills and demands usually without the wherewithal to settle them. That’s not to say utility bills etcetera don’t land on the mat here but they’re not as enormous as the British ones and one is usually in a position to pay although, as with everywhere else, the cost of living rises by the day. When there was one of the inevitable bank strikes that went on longer than expected leaving us with about six euro to last and we had to take one of the animals to the vet, “What are you worried about?” he asked. “What do you need money for?” (Well to pay him for a start though that obviously would have to wait and again to put things in perceptive or rather make comparisons even if odious, a visit to the vet in the UK is likely to set one back about £40 or more. Here the cost is 12 euro, roughly £9.50) “You live in a village,” he said, “you grow your own tomatoes, you grow potatoes, what do you need money for?” The Cretans are a wonderful people. When we ran out of heating oil with more’n a month of winter to go and had no money to pay for a refill, “Then berazi” says our friendly Haralambos at the garage, “No matter. Pay me when you’ve got it.” We told him it would more’n likely be a couple’ of months, possibly even more but it didn’t seem to matter. The next day the oil was delivered and indeed it did take a couple of months to pay him. The same thing happened with the local chemist when I was taken badly and desperately needed medicines we had no money for. “Take them.” Was the response. “It’s an emergency. Pay when you can.” Could you imagine for one moment that happening in England? Somehow I really doubt it. But back to the post. Order from Amazon arrived: two copies of DEAD ON TIME that a lady here asked us to get for her and two Kurasawa films, RAN and THRONE OF BLOOD, also contract from the BBC to turn DOCTOR WHO THE SPACE MUSEUM into an audiobook. Great!