My holiday was really, properly brilliant (thanks for asking).
So brilliant, in fact, that I am seriously struggling to function back in the real world. I spent a week reading books, eating feta cheese and olives and yoghurt, drinking local wine out of a barrel, feeding stray cats, sleeping and sunbathing and chatting and swimming and boating.
I can see why people seem to go back to Greece repeatedly. I am taking this one step further and having full-blown Leonard Cohen-esque fantasies of moving there, preferably for a winter, when it is cheap and I will be unusual.
I will rent a tiny flat and learn Greek. I will buy an old-school typewriter and a moped. I will feed the cats and write and write on my tiny balcony. I will walk to the market with a basket and buy fruit, waving at the old ladies in their doorways as I pass. I will collect shells from the beach and keep them on my desk.