It's All Greek To Me

I'm taking part in Sally Quilford's Blog Take Over Day again this year so here goes. Hope you enjoy!

A passport craves a bit of adventure.




Yes, I admit it, I am still smarting from being abandoned in that poncey Greek taverna, so no, since you ask, I am not in the right frame of mind to hear my owner is planning the next holiday debacle.

You know, there was a time I had my life planned out. The first ten years, anyway. The Caribbean, the Maldives, Goa. All inclusive, of course. Drinks package, the whole caboodle. But what do I get? Two-star self-catering in the same shit-hole for the past three years because milady here has a thing for a certain Greek waiter. Trollop!

Hello, what’s she up to now? On the phone to her sister wanting to know the meaning of ‘moral turpitude’. From what I can make out she’s filling in some on-line form. Something about a visa.

I wish I hadn’t mentioned the Greek incident now. Takes me right back to this time last year. She’d been on the retsina since she’d packed her suitcase and was still knocking them back on the plane - cheap seats. Last Minute dot crap.

We’d flown a day earlier than planned and she’d gone straight to the taverna to surprise Mr Greek. She did that all right. Caught him with his bread stick in another woman’s pastitsio. Get the picture?

Well, she picks up the pepper mill and lays him out cold. Next thing, she’s being escorted out to a taxi by some guy who’d been sitting at the bar (American - all loose tie and rolled up sleeves) and taken back to the airport. Somehow, in the kafuffle, I’ve fallen out of her handbag and become wedged under the dessert trolley alongside a stray olive.

I swear I can still smell garlic when she flicks through my pages and there’s a nasty stain on my faux leather case. That’s another thing...faux. Every passport I know has the real thing, though my preference would be for a nice Cath Kidston; the Provence rose one. Now that’s class. But no, Slack Alice here wobbled between fake Burberry and faux leather. Pink, faux leather. But I digress. The important thing, I suppose, is that the young chap who’d come to her rescue returned to look for me. For whatever reason, probably so she could refund him the taxi fare, young chap had given her his phone number and she’d called him from the airport when she realised I was missing.

Several hours later, we're back home, the suitcase is stashed under the spare bed, I’m back in the shoebox at the bottom of her wardrobe and she’s sobbing down the phone. No doubt to Mr Greek though it’s difficult to hear when you’re wedged under a pair of gladiator strappies.

Anyway, this goes on for months which brings us to the here and now. I’m lying on the desk with my spine crushed to buggery while she’s singing away to herself and tapping away on the computer. Then the phone rings and she’s on it like a German on a sunlounger.

Yes, she’s telling caller, she’s sorted out the visa. She can’t wait to see him again. And his ranch. Ranch? Fly first class? America? Max? Who’s Max? Of course! The guy who came to her rescue in Greece! He's the one she's been speaking to on the phone all along.

This passport is bound for Vegas, baby!