Cretans and Cretins

Our arrival in Crete was anything but discrete. To pass the time on the ferry we had stocked up on traditional Greek time-passing stocks: ouzo and more ouzo. Unfortunately, when we disembarked the rough sea had so disrupted our semicircular canals that we were swaying and tottering down the port, remarkably like to drunken sailors that had just consumed bucket-loads of ouzo. we had arrived in the charming Chania- a town with the architectural quaintness of the Venetians, the oriental flair of the Ottomans, mixed with the insalubrious refuse of the Greeks. It could have only been divine intervention by some local deity that we found somewhere to stay. The mystic, Marcos, entered our lives like a beautifully executed billiards string- very slowly and from the opposite direction. An animated discusion in which Marcos could speak no English and we could speak no sense netted us the Marlin of all accommodation (not to say that it smelt fishy).

Whilst WGB took the opportunity for a spontaneous loss of consciousness, NFC departed on a quest for that life-giving saviour of the post-inebriate, composed of two part hydrogen atoms to one part oxygen. Within 2 seconds, he was as lost as a hair louse in a Greek man's chest. He spent several hours staggering around, shouting oaths, shaking his fist at the sky and flying into a rage at all who came to his help. Fortunately his wild screams of Marcos!! were eventually greeted by the shuffling re-emergence of our Parkinsonian prophet who again guided him to the safety of our Cretan shelter.

Thought of the day- man can not eat 5 gyros in one sitting.

Gyros Tally = 13