A day in the life of ...

... An Events Co-ordinator (published Oct/Nov 2009)

2009-10-24T10:15:00.000-07:00

When Nisea was first published Mellissa came up with this bright idea of my doing ‘a day in the life of…’ each month. Putting my investigative journalist head on and going to find out about something that I wouldn’t normally be involved with. One of those earliest articles was a day in the life of a charity volunteer, when I met Judy Quinn and her charges at the Corfu Donkey Rescue (CDR).

So impressed was I with the work that Judy undertakes, often in the most extreme of conditions (she lives in a small caravan on the edge of the donkey paddock, devoting her time, 24/7 to the care of the animals she shares her life with) that I decided to make this a little more than a one day event. After that meeting I offered to run the donkey adoption scheme for the CDR, and since then have tried to help out where and when I can.

A few months ago I was contacted about an event that was being organised to raise money towards building the first of six shelters on the new site that the CDR had just acquired. An art auction. Did I happen to know any artists who might contribute?

As it happened I did, so I made a few enquiries and managed to get several paintings donated. I offered the organisers my help if there was anything I could do and we kept in tacit contact over the following few weeks.

Then disaster struck. The principle organiser had to bow out of the activities for personal reasons and the auction was left with no co-ordinator. Umm, what was that’d I’d said about if there was anything I could do…?

Ah well thought I, it can’t be that difficult can it? Just need to get a few more paintings in, find an auctioneer and do a spot of advertising. Talk about famous last words!

I took over about 2 weeks before the event had been billed to take place. I quickly managed to find Dave, a professional auctioneer. Only problem there was that he’d be in Norwich, not Corfu, on the big day. A chat with my co-organisers, Judy and a wonderful lady called Dagmar who is the manager of the Nefeli Hotel in Kommeno where the auction was going to be held, and we decided to postpone until our willing auctioneer was on holiday Kalami in September.

I then put my thinking cap on. How could we find some more willing artists to donate their work – we had just 8 paintings at this point.

Over the next couple of days I experienced a very steep learning curve entitled “teach yourself how to build a website”. OK, it wasn’t that difficult really thanks to the wonders of freewebs, but it did take quite a while to design and populate, especially when I had to download each photograph half a dozen times before the site would accept it – I never did get to the bottom of that!

I then wrote to all the CDR supporters I could find, started placing adverts in various Corfu based websites, newspapers, magazines and even on the local radio. Dagmar designed posters and Judy got them printed, then we all drove around frantically sticking them up anywhere and everywhere!

Judy had thought it would be good to have some sort of heritage display showing how donkeys were employed in Corfu before the advent of motorised transport. The Acharavi Folkloric Museum stepped up to the mark on that one, agreeing to loan us some beautiful black and white framed prints of donkeys and ponies in all manner of guises from wedding processions to water delivery.

Meanwhile Dagmar worked her socks off receiving paintings, detailing them for me to put on the website and then displaying them in the hotel reception area. My inbox started to fill up with enquiries, offers of paintings and perhaps most excitingly commission bids.

By the time Sunday September 13th arrived, our big day, we had received bids totalling nearly 1800€. A fantastic amount already, but I was still worried that we wouldn’t have any guests on the night! With the weeks having turned to days, which in turn became hours, the time eventually arrived for me to put on my glad rags and get down to Hotel Nefeli.

After all manner of last minute preparations, and a shared pizza, Judy’s students, on internships to learn about donkey husbandry, were dispatched along the driveway that lead between hotel and road, to direct any traffic that might come our way.

Just before 8pm, official door opening time, a car came into the driveway. My hopes rose a little and were then dashed again as the four occupants headed straight for the poolside bar rather than our soiree. Moments later the auctioneer turned up with his wife and two friends – our first guests!

Over the next hour a steady trickle of people came in. Some were hotel guests, intrigued to see what we were up to, others were supporters and contributors. With 5 minutes before kick off a quick headcount showed me we had around 20 people who had actually turned up for the auction. I tried to look on the bright side, that was 20 more than we might have had. Then the auctioneer, who had adjourned to the bar for a spot of liquid lubrication, returned. And close on his heels were another 30 or so guests, including the four I had seen arrive some time previously. As the first lot was put onto the easel not a single seat was vacant. We might not have packed them in, but it was certainly standing room only!

At about midnight the last of our guests bade us goodnight, and I was left to count up the final tally. I checked, and then checked again. Three thousand, two hundred and seventy six euros. Not a bad night’s work at all!

At risk of sounding like an overeager actress thanking all and sundry for an award, I must say that without the help and support of all the following people we could never have achieved such a worthwhile amount. And thanks too to everyone who placed a bid, your generosity means the CDR can afford to build not one, but two shelters on their new land that will eventually be home to 12 of Corfu’s finest four legged friends!

Artists: Warren Curry, Val Morrow, Stephi Clash, Frankie Cranfield, Delia Delderfield, Sally Boyd,
Caroline Philp, Rita Alaminos, Georgia Siamandouras, Jean Walsh, Gioia, Nikos, Heidi Kaeding, Bev Kinnell, Emma Fifield, Diane Marshall, John Pritchatt, Gordon Pritchatt, Claire Louise Butler, Uschis Niemann, Brigette Martin.

Photographers: Emma A from Alterego, Brian Thearle, Grahame Smith.

Authors: Kim Green, Deborah Lawrenson, Maria Strani-Potts, Jim Potts, Viv Oldaker.

And also: The Asian Spa & Ayurvedic Retreat, Valerie Osborne-Androutsopoulou (Casa Lucia), tennis coach Graham Biggs and fitness instructor Jeanette Ballard.

And last, but by no means least, our wonderful auctioneer David Wilde, and the owners and staff of the Hotel Nefeli – Thank you one and all!

A classroom assistant (published August-Sept 2009)

2009-09-06T12:58:00.000-07:00

I have been trying for the best part of a year to organise a day spent in a Greek school, helping out with the youngsters in the class. Whether this simply isn’t done here, or perhaps because, being a journalist (very loosely) and there being concerns about what I might write, my requests have been referred to the education authority, and appear to have been lost!

Meanwhile, I woke up with a start the other night and thought Eureka! I can do it! OK, so it wasn’t a Greek school, but when Mellissa suggested I do the ‘day in the life’ there was no mention of it having to be something I’ve done in Corfu.

So here it is…

Before we moved to Corfu I was a governor at our local primary school. Being a governor mainly comprises going to evening meetings, taking a lot of notes and sometimes being asked to sit on sub committees, boards and even undertake risk assessments. Most governors also take on a responsibility for one or more subjects taught at the school, and spend a while during term time visiting the school to see how their chosen subject is being imparted to the students.

One of my subjects was art and design, so when I read the contents of a note that my son had brought home from his teacher I knew it was my turn to go-see what they got up to. Things were likely to get messy, paint splattered and probably very sticky.

A group of artists had been invited to the school to work with the children over a two day period to turn their assembly hall and reception area into a jungle! All 130 children and every teacher were to be involved in the project and extra support was needed from volunteers.

I duly put my name down, then searched through the airing cupboard for an old, oversized shirt to protect my day clothes. Something told me I was going to need it!

At 9am promptly I arrived and was guided to the year 3 classroom. I was to be helping a group of children aged 8 to 9 to shape and model a full sized leopard, made from paper mache and finished using a coloured collage. Deep joy!

I wasn’t wrong about the mess. The recipe for the model was 5 litres of glue, approx 200 magazines and newspapers, 53 different shades of tissue paper, one template, 15 paintbrushes and a selection of 10 excited children, including my own son, all sure that they understood exactly what was to be done, but unfortunately with no two children having quite the same understanding of the instructions!

After an hour I was beginning to lose the will to live! Andrew, a boisterous child, had smacked Kelsey, pretty, bright and regularly voted ‘most popular girl in school’ across the face with a glue filled paintbrush. Jack was singing the theme music to the ‘Sheila’s Wheels’ advert at the top of his voice, repeatedly. Emily and Anna were arguing about the size of the leopard’s tail, whilst Jordan was insisting that all leopards had stripes and was busy cutting strips of green and blue tissue paper that were being blown across the room. David, Liam and Jonathon were fighting quietly in the corner, (something to do with football) and, I suddenly realised, Lucy was missing entirely.

After a brief search I found Lucy safely in the cloakroom eating an apple. Fed up with the rest of them she had taken solace in food.

The process continued in this vein for the rest of the day, with a brief interlude for lunch (sausages, beans and mash) and a quick came of tag in the playground. No one was more grateful than I when the final bell went at 3.15pm.

But the work was not yet finished! This was less of ‘a day in the life’, more ‘two days in the life’. The following morning I dragged myself out of bed and managed to stumble into school just as the morning bell whirred.

In essence, day two was much as day one had been. Andrew stuck Lucy to the wall instead of Kelsey, Jordan and David argued over cricket whilst Liam, Jonathon and Jack all sang the ‘Sheila’s Wheels’ music and tried to emulated the pink clad ladies in the advert. Emily and Anna continued to argue about the leopards tail, but thankfully Kelsey and I managed to remove all the green and blue stripes whilst Jordan was otherwise occupied.

By midday our masterpiece was finished! And we were all, quite rightly, very proud of it.

I spent the afternoon wandering around other classrooms looking at the work that was being completed elsewhere and helping out as best I could. By the time I returned to my allocated class the day was just about complete and I was totally shattered! How do teachers cope with a classroom full of youngsters day in, day out? No wonder they need a few weeks off in the summer to recover!

But was it worth it? Yes, every last minute! From seeing the finished leopard slinking through the jungle on the assembly hall wall, to the numerous “thank you miss” salutations from the children as they left for home, it was totally and entirely worth it.

A Travel Agent (published June-July 2009)

2009-07-15T08:21:00.000-07:00

With the new summer season fast up on us I thought may be appropriate to do something vaguely tourism related this month. So what better than becoming a travel agent - just for a little while anyway. Having spent rather a lot of time doing active things during the last few months it seemed like a pleasant change to have a go at something that required dressing up a little and being ‘desk bound’ instead.

This in mind I was very grateful when Nathan Pascoe, director of the prestigious Agni Travel, located not far from Agni Bay, where Nathan and his family also run their fabulous Agni Taverna, invited me to join them for the day.

I drove down along the east coast admiring the views across the waters to Albania and thinking about how I would spend the next few hours. Nice desk, comfy chair, smart office, air conditioning perhaps? Oh, how different to the rigours of room maiding and bar work! I practised my best telephone manner, "good morning, how can I help you?" in a singsong sort of voice.

Arriving at the office I wasn’t disappointed. Buzzed in through the door I walked into a lovely cool fresh office space with a big squishy sofa in reception and spacious desks, state of the art computers and, yes, air conditioning. Deep joy thought I.

I was introduced to Stella, the senior sales advisor whom I was going to ‘shadow’ in order to pick up a bit about how things worked. Would I like a coffee? she asked waving a jar of Nescafe Gold Blend at me. Gold Blend - my day just got even better, I hadn’t seen a jar in ages, let alone sampled it.

I pulled up a chair next to Stella’s desk. Nursing my steaming mug, the coffee aroma tantalisingly wafting up my nostrils, Stella explained that Nathan had had to pop out but I would meet him later.

At that point a phone rang. A voice from somewhere called out "English" and Stella picked up the call. I surveyed her desk which was spotlessly tidy, but did seem to have a huge tray of papers at one side. I watched as she deftly clicked onto screen after screen showing all sorts of elements from prices and availability to specific customer booking details. In a few brief moments she had sorted out the client query on the phone and was able to take a sip of her coffee and show me around her domain.

She whizzed me through the booking system, showing me how to check the availability of properties, how the pricing structure worked and the customer referencing system was set up. As she did this she was simultaneously answering the plethora of emails that kept arriving in her in box and working her way through the papers in her tray.

The phone rang again. Stella looked at the ‘phone’s screen, "Greek", she called out, and Fontini at the next desk picked up. During the morning each time the phone went someone would shout out "Greek", "English", or occasionally "Italian", and a fluent speaker of that particular language would take the call.

What amazed me as I watched was that Stella and the rest of the sales staff were rather like swans. Graceful and composed, calm and collected when speaking on the phone, yet paddling madly beneath the surface keeping abreast of and responding to the constant flow of incoming information and requests.

The phone rang again. "English". Stella picked up the receiver. "Ah good morning Mrs Jones. Yes, we’re looking forward to meeting you on the 8th. Your airport transfer is all booked, you’re coming in on the 10.30 flight aren’t you." I was amazed, in the few short seconds, and without having to ask for the obligatory customer reference number, Stella had found Mrs Jones’ booking details on the screen and was happily confirming details.

The call continued… "No, no Mrs Jones, the owners don’t live in the villa with you, it’s entirely yours for the duration. We’re just a phone call away if you do have any queries though. Yes, the beds will be made up and bath towels are included. Yes, we do have a beach towel hire arrangement, it does help save space in your luggage doesn’t it. The car has been ordered and will be delivered to your door on the morning of the 9th. What’s that, yes yes, there is plenty of parking space Mrs Jones." And so the call went on, for nearly 10 minutes, confirming the smallest of details. No we didn’t provide the soap powder, but yes there was a washing machine in the utility room. The days the maid would come in, the time the pool cleaner arrive and where to get charcoal for the barbecue.

Stella didn’t look even slightly harassed when she put the receiver down, although I did notice her reach for the Gold Blend and sigh just a little deeply. I was beginning to realise that the comfy seats and air conditioning were all very nice, but this job required the agent to be 100% on the ball, constantly.

At that moment a tall chap in a rather grubby check shirt and jeans came in. He looked at me and smiled. "Ah hello, you must be Belinda". I nodded, not quite sure how this workman knew who I was. "I’m Nathan, pleased to meet you. You’ll forgive me if I don’t shake hands, I’ve just been helping to fix a leaky septic tank at one of the villas…."

Perhaps it isn’t all sharp suits, coffee and aircon being a travel agent after all!

With grateful thanks to Nathan, Stella and all at Agni Travel (www.agni.gr). They can be contacted via phone: UK Office Tel: (0044) 0207 1836468 and (0044) 0208 1231535. Greece Sales Tel: (0030) 26630 91609; and email: sales@agni.gr.

A Greek Folk Dancer (published April 2009)

2009-05-06T08:15:00.000-07:00

Last Autumn a friend mentioned that Greek dancing lessons would soon be starting again in our village. Having admired the ladies dancing so elegantly at last year’s pangieri (village festival) I had promised myself that I would give it a go myself if the opportunity arose, so this was my chance.

One Sunday evening a few weeks later, I arrived at the hall where the lessons are held, really not to sure what to expect. I and around 20 other ladies of various ages spent an hour following Katerina, our instructor, through a selection of half a dozen dances. Some were obviously well known, whilst others were new to the group. All of them were a mystery to me! How do you skip to the right whilst turning your body to the left? There were dances that comprised strange little half steps and shuffles, whilst others had complex hops and jumps that left me tripping up over my own feet. This was all a million miles away from slightly drunken evenings on holiday years ago, dancing round the local taverna to Zorba the Greek!

Over the next couple of months I sometimes struggled to go to lessons. The winter was drawing in and I often didn’t fancy going out into the cold night air, or get soaked through in the short walk to the hall. I found the lessons enjoyable, although my lack of Greek language skills made them difficult as I was almost completely reliant on the visual instructions, the verbal meaning little to me. But I persevered, motivated by the fact that I was at least getting some exercise, and first my daughter and then my son joined the children’s group, making lessons a family event.

Then, just after Christmas I started to get the impression that we were not just learning, but rehearsing. We were concentrating on the same dances and Katerina was demanding ever increasing levels of professionalism from us. Initially I assumed that we were preparing for the next pangieri, but eventually discovered that we were indeed rehearsing - for a show at the Theatre in Corfu Town.

Hang on a mo… the last time I was on a public stage I was 12 years old, when I played Mole in a school production of Toad of Toad Hall. Me? On stage? Dancing? I don’t think so!

At least that was my initial reaction. A couple of weeks later Katerina asked whether we were prepared to dance in the show. I dithered, I’m really not built for dancing - but with the encouragement of the other ladies I eventually agreed.

By March things had become deadly serious. No messing around and having a giggle in class, it was work, work and more work! Our one hour lessons often ended up being nearer two hours, dancing shoes were ordered, and we were measured for our costumes. Things were really hotting up.

We were to dance at the Festival of Greek Folk Dancing, being held on 24th and 25th March in Town. The children were performing early in the evening, and we ladies were on several hours later at around 11pm. In the preceding week we rehearsed almost every night, over and over, getting the smallest nuances of the steps absolutely perfect, and I found myself saying “never again” with increasing frequency.

Our costumes arrived. Mine weighed in at around 7kgs. Starting with a chemise, over which went a full length, embroidered, shift dress, then a quilted knee length coat with a thick cotton jacket over the top, all tied together with a heavy woven apron and a massive brass buckled belt. Don’t forget the 80 denier white tights (I got away with socks) and the amazing headgear. The ‘hat’ was a large formed triangle that sits on the head, tied tightly under the chin, with an embroidered band and something akin to a tablecloth strategically draped and pinned over it. The whole ensemble was finished with rows of coins, attached to chains, that hung across the lapels, and from the head-dress, around the chin.

I thought about the heat from the stage lights and wondered seriously whether I’d make it through the performance. “Never again” I reminded myself.

The big night arrived, and those of us with children boarded the coach for Town. The ladies without youngsters performing were in a lucky position of being able to go in a little later, but for us it was going to be a long evening.

Once at the theatre the enormity of the show became apparent. It was already in full swing and there were quite literally hundreds of people, both children and adults, milling about in traditional costumes. The sound from the auditorium itself suggested there was quite a significant size audience as well.

The children were directed to a dressing room, but we adults were turned back - lack of space apparently. With little chance of getting our young charges into their costumes without a bit of adult assistance we had to opt for plan B and instead get them changed in the circle foyer of the theatre.

Suddenly the call came and the children were herded down into the wings, waiting to go on. Meanwhile, I and the other mums picked up innumerable bags of clothes and costumes, then made our way into the stalls to watch the show.

The kids were wonderful, with very few mistakes and plenty of applause - they had done well and made us all very proud.

Once their part of the show was over and various presentations made we had to quickly return them to civvies before getting ourselves kitted out in readiness for our performance. Two dozen women, each with multiple layered costumes, trying to get changed in a 4m x 4m dressing room. Well, at least we weren’t out in the foyer!

40 minutes of bedlam and a quick shot from the Scotch that one lady had thoughtfully brought along, and we were in the wings, posing for photographs before going on stage. I felt strangely calm, although “never again” was still whirring through my mind.

The stage manager came over and indicated we should take our places. We dutifully shuffled into line. The opening bars of our first dance broke through the hubbub going on backstage. We were off.

As the first dancers went onto the stage a huge round of applause and wolf whistles went up - for which I must thank the children and husbands of Platonas and Nymfes - it was very reassuring to know someone was rooting for us.

We moved slowly onto the stage. The lady next to me was shaking so much it was affecting me too. My knees felt as though they were turning to jelly. Deep breath, and it was my turn to go through the side curtains. What a relief - I could barely seen the audience at all thanks to the stage lights.

15 minutes later we exited stage right to more wolf whistles and rapturous applause. We’d done it - and I do believe we’d danced better than we ever had done before. Meeting us as we came off the stage dancers from another group were clapping us and calling out “bravo Nymfes”.

Funny thing is, my first comment when we got back into the dressing room wasn’t “never again”, but “I can’t wait for the next time” - a sentiment echoed by most, if not all, of my fellow dancers.

Thank you to all the ladies of Nymfes and Platonas whom I joined in dancing Ramna Zarama, Bella Olympia, Sofka, Riakos and Syrtos Makedonias and congratulations to them all on a fine performance. Thank you also to the ladies who were instrumental in organising so much behind the scenes - costumes, shoes, transport, practice venues. And finally a special mention for the wonderful Katerina our instructor, who has taught, cajoled, threatened and bribed us into becoming a dancers fit for the stage!

A children's party clown (published March 2009)

2008-12-17T05:42:00.001-08:00

I’d been pondering what to write for this month’s ‘a day in the life….’. It isn’t the time of year to go and work as a coastguard; most of the hotels and tourist related businesses are now closed for the winter; a day in the life of a builder was likely to read, ‘woke up and looked at the sky, it was grey and rain was falling in great droplets, so went back to bed’ (apologies to all builders that aren’t worried about a drop of the wet stuff), and Mellissa was still insisting that she wanted to do the interview with the local fire service!

Somewhat at a loss I looked around for inspiration, but found none. Then my daughter started hassling me. It’s the party today mummy, how much longer before we can go?

Party, what party? I asked myself. Then remembered that one of her schoolfriends was celebrating her birthday that afternoon. After a couple of years of low key celebrations mum had decided that this year she’d push out the proverbial boat. Good sized party venue, lots of guests, big buffet bursting with snack foods and e-numbers that all children seem to gravitate towards, a disco and …. a clown.

A small light bulb metaphorically illuminated above my head.

We were some of the first to arrive at the party but Bioleta was already well into the swing of things, dancing around, and smiling hugely to her slowly growing audience.

The first thing that struck me was that Bioleta was not quite your average clown. Certainly there were oversized shoes, bright silky trousers and shirt with huge buttons, a painted smile and some very becoming hearts on the cheeks, but Bioleta was not quite as I’d imagined… Bioleta was a lady!

She immediately had my admiration. I’ve always considered clowning to be a predominantly male profession. Perhaps I’m wrong, but for me the clowns employed to entertain at parties back in the UK have always been two things Firstly of the masculine persuasion (despite the makeup) and secondly, slightly, if not very, scary. I recall a 3rd or 4th birthday party that my son went to many years ago. The headline act was “Marvo the Magical Clown”. Painted smile or not, Marvo wouldn’t start, let alone continue his act, until the 20 or so little darlings were sitting cross legged on the floor with their hands tucked tightly under their armpits. Every time a child spoke or, heaven forbid, pointed out that the rabbit was escaping from the box behind his table, Marvo would stop his performance and berate the offending child before continuing.

Bioleta was a breath of fresh air by comparison. As we walked in she came over, waved a cheery yassas to us and blew my daughter a kiss. She continued to greet all the partygoers in similar fashion, and between times danced and sang to the background music, scooping up the smallest children for a dance-along.

That’s not so bad I thought, I could do that. Give me a red nose and a water squirting flower for my hair and I’d be on a roll.

Twenty minutes and forty children later I was beginning to have second thoughts though. Bioleta had greeted each and every one of them, her smile whilst painted, seemed genuine too. It occurred to me that she was now going to have to entertain all these children for a sustained period of time, because that’s what clowns do.

Now I’ve held more birthday parties than I could swing a custard pie at over the years. But the parties I organised were normally for no more than a dozen or so children, involved a mega ‘pass the parcel’, sore throats (normally mine from the all the shouting), sticking plasters, tears and tissues, chocolate cake trodden into the carpet, and the need for an exceptionally large scotch or two by the time the last of the sweethearts were heading for home with their lovingly created goodie bag.

But Bioleta was a woman on a mission. 40 children to entertain, not a first aid box in sight and no time to go to the bar to order a sedative. She was brilliant!

Bioleta started with a goodly selection of games to keep the youngsters amused. Skip over the rope - get it caught around your ankles and you’re out. Stand in a line and take a number. If your number is called, crawl though the arch of legs to the front of the line and shout Boo! Put all the children’s shoes in a big pile and play ‘shoe salad’. Simple, fast moving games that kept the participants thinking, and on the go. What struck me though was that a majority of the games didn’t involve winners, and there were no prizes on offer to incite unfair competition between children of differing ages. Smart move Bioleta.

After a while the event moved on into dance mode. But not disco fever or house and hip-hop. The children were organised into a large circle and taught that good old stalwart, the Hokey-Cokey. Once legs, arms, heads and wholeselves had been in’d, out’d and shaken all about the mood had been set and another old favourite, ‘Superman’ was introduced to the admiring crowd.

By the time they’d finished skiing, swimming combing their hair the children were all more than ready to demolish the buffet, which they did with great aplomb. After many plates of pies and chocolate cakes, bowls of crisps and glasses of fizzy lemonade, they were ready to get back into party mode. Bioleta meanwhile had taken the opportunity to recharge her motor - or possibly her size 16s - and was also primed to introduce a few more games and activities before it was time to blow out the candles and say a warm goodnight.

The party was intended to go on for just over 2 hours. By the time my normally reserved daughter had been extracted from the middle of the melee of gleeful children she’d been in situ for nearly twice that time. Bioleta was still smiling, reports had it that no-one was injured, there had been minimal tears and everyone had had a thoroughly good time. The children because Bioleta had been a brilliant entertainer, the parents because they’d had a chance to socialise with each other without interruption from their offspring.

If I had a fluorescent pink bowler hat I’d take it off to Bioleta. She had managed single-handedly to entertain some 40 children for the best part of 4 hours without having to resort to bribery or threats. She’d managed to avoid tantrums entirely, treated each child equally and fairly, had succeeded in keeping a smile on her face and not look at her watch… even the once. Well done that woman!

Bioleta the clown can be contacted on: 6979163912.

A farmer (published November 2008)

2008-12-17T05:31:00.000-08:00

What is the money on your thinking ah-ha, she’s been out working in the olive groves this month? Well if that was what you were thinking given the title of this piece, you’d be entirely wrong.

Granted I have spent a little while in the olive groves of north Corfu, and can say without fear of contradiction that farming olives is incredibly hard, often thankless work. Whether harvesting the crop, sifting the olives ready for pressing, clearing the land beneath the trees, pruning or spraying it is a backbreaking job, and is not an entirely male activity by any means. The women work just as hard, if not harder than their husbands, fathers and sons, and I have the utmost respect for anyone who is involved in this activity.

But no, having spent 3 weeks on crutches after falling badly the last time I clambered up the side of an olive grove, I’m not writing about olive farmers. I’m on about tax gatherers.

The term farmer has various definitions. The obvious one is referring to an individual who uses rural land on which to grow produce or graze animals. However, there are others, including “One who takes taxes, customs, excise, or other duties, to collect, either paying a fixed annual rent for the privilege; as, a farmer of the revenues”.

Strangely enough, not only is my surname Farmer, but once upon a time, many years ago when I was a wee slip of a lass, I worked for Her Majesty’s Customs & Excise as a farmer in this literal translation - specifically what was then known as a VAT Control Officer - or more commonly the dreaded VAT Inspector. I am truly sorry to have to make that admission, but it was a long time ago and in my defence I only did the job for a short period.

However, notwithstanding my grovelling apologies, during my Control Officer training I undertook a number of visits to inspect traders books and records with a view to confirming their accuracy.

One of these visits was to a farmer. That is in the sense of someone who tills the soil and raises animals for eventual consumption. These farmers are normally what is know as “repayment traders”. This is because whilst most of what they use to grow their products - equipment, heavy plant, animal feeds, seeds, fertilisers etc attract VAT at 17.5%, the foodstuffs that they sell on, whether they are arable or animal, are VAT “zero rated” or 0%. Therefore the farmer can reclaim the VAT that he has paid out, but doesn’t have to charge or declare any on his sales.

As a trainee I was required to visit at least one farmer. It was a learning curve for me, but also, despite Control Officers being much maligned, seen as only trying to catch the honest taxpayer out, in reality our job was to ensure the amount of tax paid to and claimed from the Exchequer was correct. As much as we would assess an underpayment, we would also check for overpayments, and arrange a repayment if necessary.

So I turned up one late Autumn morning at a very muddle farmyard belonging to a very elderly farmer, somewhere in deepest Essex. My trainer was also in attendance, armed with heavy duty green wellies and an official looking briefcase.

The farmer came out to greet us. Not ruddy faced and smiling, but sour faced and scowling. A small but noisy Jack Russell terrier accompanied him barking madly and nipping at my ankles. We were shown into the farmhouse, through a room that 100 years ago would have been called a parlour, but now was something akin to a mess, and into the ‘best room’. Here we were greeted by an overstuffed settee and a circa 1930s table with two unmatched chairs tucked roughly beneath. I doubted somehow that there was a farmer’s wife.

‘Me papers are in that’ he waved loosely in the direction of an elderly cardboard suitcase, tied tightly with baling twine, grubby looking papers poking out from beneath it’s lid. I perched cautiously on one of the dining chairs and thanked him, going on to explain that before we made a start on his records I’d like to ask just a few questions about the business, and take a quick look around.

This was standard practice at any visit. Establish exactly what the nature of the trade is before looking at the paperwork. I’d visited a tree surgeon once who’d reclaimed £1500 VAT on the purchase of a hot air balloon! He did have a few difficulties in explaining why he needed it for his business, but that’s another story.
I asked the normal questions and my farmer told me about the various arable crops he’d been growing that year. I then asked about livestock. I’d seen some hens and ducks, but did he have any cows? ‘Nar,’ came the reply, ‘jus’ a few pigs ‘n thart’ he assured me.

A few minutes later, the questions having been answered satisfactorily, my trainer suggested we take a look at the yard and barns. With Jack barking frantically we hauled on our wellies and went out into the mud. A blue tractor, a green tractor, a couple of old trailers, various vicious looking bits of machinery that were probably used for ploughing and planting. After taking a look at the pigs we wandered down into the ‘far barn’, where, to my surprise, were half a dozen cows.

I turned to the farmer accusingly. ‘I thought you said you didn’t have any cows’. ‘Oi ain’t,’ came the curt reply, ‘those be ‘effers’. The look of disdain on his face would have been enough to turn Medusa to stone.

I could find no adequate reply, so I settled for ‘Oh’. Then sighed deeply and began to make my way back to the farmhouse and the great joy that awaited us when we opened the suitcase containing 20 years worth of loose invoices and perhaps, if we were very, very lucky, a half completed day book.

A Vintager (published October 2008)

2008-11-02T23:39:00.001-08:00

Until a couple of weeks ago I didn’t realise that I am a vintager - or that there are a great many of them here in Corfu. If you’re resident here and have a garden you may well be one too.

What is a vintager when it’s at home? According to my dictionary a vintager is a “grower or harvester of wine grapes”. More simply, it’s a posh name for a grape picker. And whilst we’re talking definitions, a vintner historically refers to a seller of wine but in these modern and enlightened times it is also used to describe amateur winemakers. Now, on to the fruity bit!

In mid September I returned from a hectic couple of weeks visiting in England with my children. My husband meanwhile had been revelling in the solitude afforded him by not accompanying us. I was a little concerned to discover that he had been using the time to do something that, as a woman, I firmly believe no man should be allowed to do…. thinking! Not only thinking, but also discussing his thoughts at the local taverna - with other men!

The end result was that no sooner had we had put down our cases down he announced that his friend Nikos had promised to show him how to make wine, and so we were going to pick our grapes first thing the following morning.

Sure enough, next day before the sun was too high in the sky we all traipsed along to our garden, armed with secateurs and plastic crates, to harvest our crop. 52kgs of small, sweet, black grapes in all. Not bad considering last year we managed 5kg. I was rather pleased with our haul, imagining it would make us a few litres of hooch in time for Christmas.

Soon afterwards there was a tooting of a van horn outside our house, followed by a heavy accent calling out for my husband. Ah-ha, our Greek doorbell is working! Hubby jumped up – ‘that’ll be Nikos, we’re going to get the rest of the grapes now’. The rest of the grapes? Confused I watched him charge out of the house, jump in Nikos’ van and head off down the street. Four hours later hubby returned with a broad grin on his face. He smelt rather strange – something between vinegar and fruit juice, was absolutely filthy and seemed to be fighting off the small army of wasps that buzzed around him, no doubt attracted by the smell.

‘Well, that’s the first stage completed’ he proudly announced. ‘300 kilos of grapes in all. We’ve put them into a big barrel and crushed them. They should have a large wooden board on top to weigh them down, but the barrel is tapered and I didn’t have enough grapes to fill it. The board won’t sit that far down the barrel so I have to go and push them down manually’.

I reeled momentarily. 300kgs – how much wine were we going to make? Apparently one should anticipate achieving a final produce that equates 65-70% of the gross weight of the grapes. So in our case we might expect around 200kg of wine (1kg being roughly equivalent to a litre).

For the next 4 days we went to push down the grapes. I helped as best I could, but being short of stature I found it difficult to avoid going headfirst into the huge barrel!

Eventually the time came to strain the fluid, re-press or crush the remaining solids and then decant it all into barrels to ferment. Just one small problem – the barrel containing our crushed grapes was on the terrace at Nikos mother in laws, and our apethiki where the fermenting would to take place was 800m away…

Sorted! Hubby and Nikos strained the fluid into a 100 litre drum, plus numerous smaller jugs and bottles, pressing the residue once more to extract as much as possible before putting the lot onto the back of his pickup and driving VERY carefully to the apethiki.

Once there I joined them. Using a couple of buckets and large funnel with a filter in it the chaps slowly decanted all the wine into our new barrels. Periodically I was tasked to add some sugar to a bucket of wine. It added a whole new dimension to the expression “up to my elbows in it”. It really does take some time to get 2kgs of granulated to dissolve in 10 litres of a cold fluid, and mixing quite literally by hand does seem to be the most effective way of doing it. By the time we were done I had stirred 10kgs of sugar into the mix. I was also given the unenviable task of periodically disposing of the hundreds of wasps that became caught in the filter. The things I’ll do for a glass of krasi!

Since that evening we’ve had to visit the barrels twice daily. They have been fizzing away, fermenting nicely, but must be kept topped up with some of the fluid kept back for the purpose. Letting air into the barrels will spoil the brew.

Apparently, once the fermentation stops we have to decant the wine into clean barrels and leave it for a while. The whole process from initial crushing to filling a glass with something drinkable is said to take 50 days. As I write we’re a little over half way to the day of reckoning. Hopefully by the time the November issue hits the shelves I should be able to report on the final product. Hic!

A holistic therapist (published September 2008)

2008-11-02T23:38:00.000-08:00

A while ago I had the privilege to meet and interview holistic therapist Maria Grandegger, whom you will read about in this month’s issue of Nisea. Her work with colours, Reiki and regression therapies intrigued me. So when, during a recent visit to the UK, I was offered the opportunity to spend some time with another holistic therapist for my “day in the life of” article I jumped at the chance.

Diane Marshall explained that her 2 years of training has led to qualifications in a wide range of therapies - body massage, stress massage, Indian head massage, aromatherapy, Reiki, crystal healing and reflexology. She also has diet and nutrition qualifications and is a counsellor. Before she could begin to train in the various therapies she now practices she also had to study anatomy and physiology. When I heard all this I began to realise there was little chance of my having any ‘hands on’ experience in this particular day in the life of quest!

On our arrival I was introduced to Sheila, the clinic’s receptionist. Even this job isn’t as straightforward as one might imagine. Not only does Sheila answer telephones, make bookings, manage records, and direct clients to their therapist, she is also first point of call when it comes to finding out what the client really needs! It is quite normal for a client to call and ask for a ‘relaxing massage’. But what do they really require? Why do they want to relax? Do they have neck pain, or are they under stress? Perhaps it’s pressure of work or money worries. Sheila needs to ascertain rather more than simply what the client thinks they might want in order to assess the urgency of the treatment.

So what of the clients. What type of people go in for holistic therapies? A surprisingly wide and diverse range in fact! From the elderly hoping for relief from some physical discomfort to babies with sleeping difficulties. Massage and other therapies are used to help deal with all sorts of problems that many of us will face from time to time in our lives. From exam pressure to acne, a bride or groom to be or young wife worried about the future. Busy mums, depressed middle managers -you name them, the chances are there is some way holistic therapy can help.

Diane points out that these therapies don’t cure diseases, although the can help with stress, worry and sleeplessness all of which can adversely affect the recovery or treatment processes on a vast range of illnesses.

After a cup of herbal tea and a half hour spent with Sheila at the reception desk Diane announced that she was on her way out to some corporate clients and would I like to come along. Bemused I agreed and, sinking the last of the cuppa, followed her out of the building.

Ten minutes later we were in the rather swanky offices of a large legal practice. I’m not certain what I had anticipated, but this was not it! We were shown into a luxuriously furnished conference room - complete with an en-suite - where we were left to set up the massage table, oils, towels etc. Diane gave me a notebook and explained that my job would be to make a record of each client’s name and the therapy they received. In addition I would be ensuring Diane’s tools of the trade were replenished as necessary. Apparently it isn’t uncommon for the more caring large employers to provide a monthly holistic therapies day - it is proven to help reduce man days lost to ill health and is a great boost for many hardworking employees.

For the next few hours we had a steady stream of stressed out solicitors through the doors. Head massage, neck and shoulder massage, aromatherapies, were prescribed and supplied. You name it, they had it! Of course such treatments are personal and would not normally include an observer, so for the pre treatment discussions and treatments themselves I left the room. Although one young clerk was happy for me to see how Diane got to grips with an Indian head massage - it looked wonderful!

Later, back at the clinic, Diane told me that a receptionist in a holistic therapy clinic will also need to have some basic massage skills. Sheila will often perform massage on the hand and arm, used to ‘finish off’ a more complete massage therapy. I realised that as she spoke she was also arranging a soft towel, oils and a bowl of warm water. “Give me your hand” she said, “this is what it’s all about”. Ten minutes later my arms, wrists and hands felt light and refreshed! As I basked in the calming sensation I was jolted back to reality. “Right, it’s your turn now” said Diane. “Don’t forget to refresh the water and towels before you start” she instructed as she proffered her left arm to me….

Massage - the healing touch

Massage is one of the oldest forms of healing. It's long been used to break down muscle spasm, improve circulation and help wounds heal. In fact our first instinct, when hurt, is to rub the painful spot and when worried or anxious, we tend to wring our hands or pull our fingers through our hair.

A full body massage by a qualified therapist is a great treat. But the basic rubbing and kneading moves are simple enough to learn in a short course or from a book.

In a World of stress, impending recession, problems and aggression, we all need a form of release and support. Whilst massage is not the cure all answer, it does lift the mind and spirit and helps us to regird our loins. The 'time out' away from your normal activities is relaxing in itself and touch has long been acknowledged as helpful in boosting the "feel good" factor within us.

Quick Neck and Shoulder Massage

This is one you can ask your partner to do at the end of a stressful day. It is just as effective with your friend sitting astride a chair with their back to you. I can be carried out over the top of clothes in which case no medium is used. However, on bare back and shoulders a small amount of oil applied to he hands before commencing allows a degree of 'slide' and rhythm. Grapeseed or sweet almond oil is fine, as is olive oil, but olive oil tends to give a strong aroma.

Do each move several times.

· Put you forearms on the shoulders and press down and hold for 2-3 seconds and release (do this 3 times)
· Pick up the top of the shoulders and knead the muscle, with fingers in front and heels of the hand behind. Pick up as much of the flesh as possible and knead like bread. Press firmly, but be careful not to pinch. Continue the movement down the upper arms
· Supporting the head with one hand, put the other on the back of the neck and pull fingers and thumb towards the centre
· Still supporting the head, push up under the edge of the skull with the heel of your hand, working from one side to the other
· While your partner leans of the back of the chair, massage the back in big circles with the heels of your hands
· Finish with gentle stroking through hair and allow hands to rest on shoulders for few seconds to indicate end of session

The session should be between 10 to 15 minutes but of course, you can adjust the time to suit yourself and your partner.

A charity volunteer (published August 2008)

2008-11-02T23:35:00.000-08:00

You may be aware that the Corfu Donkey Rescue (CDR) has recently been under threat of closure. A problem over the issue of the necessary permits due to it being one of a kind on the island and therefore difficult to categorise, plus a complaint about its location, meant it was at risk of being ‘sealed’ and its residents being put out onto the street.

People world wide rallied to help, bombarding Corfu’s Governor with messages of support for the sanctuary. Over 3000 people signed a petition and the story received coverage in local and national press. As a result the CDR has the Governor’s backing and is being given more time to arrange the relocation of its operation and to get the necessary paperwork in order.

Now that the fervour has died down a little we thought the time might be right to see what all the fuss had been about. It would also give my kids a chance to do something different for a day during the seemingly endless school holidays. So I contacted Judy Quin who runs the CDR and was promptly invited to come and spend a day at the sanctuary with her, 39 donkeys, 1 pony, 5 dogs, numerous cats, rabbits and an adolescent chicken.

When we arrived at around 9am Judy and a visiting helper, Juliette, were preparing breakfast of a sugar beet mash and pellet feed in innumerable bowls for the residents. We were swiftly enlisted to help distribute the bowls, taking care not to get too close to one particular paddock of donkeys whom Judy described as “the bullies” - donkeys who whilst normally quite placid did rather jostle to be first in the queue when it came to feeding time.

Once the bowls were out we filled nets and feed boxes with hay, split more bales to scatter throughout the rear paddock and filled the huge water tubs. Judy asked that I help her empty the existing water from a particularly large tub first. She explained that one of the dogs would insist on taking a dip in this particular tub and the donkeys didn’t like the taste afterwards!

Breakfast over we got on with the business of cleaning. Large rakes to scrape the paddocks clear of the overnight detritus; putting it into piles, then donning thick rubber gloves to fill plastic crates with dung, which in turn were emptied into large sacks. Thankfully a regular volunteer, Susan, arrived not too far into this process and with her help the cleaning process was further expedited. When the manure man arrived in a big pickup at about midday he had 30 or so sacks of fresh dung to take away - recycling at its most basic!

By late morning the heat was searing. I was nearly happy to go into the stables to rake up the muck in there. Despite the particularly strong niff that emanated from its furthest recesses, at least it was cooler than being out in the paddocks. My children were busy with a selection of brushes, combs and other somewhat strange looking items that I was assured were grooming accoutrements, giving the residents a good brushing down which most of them loved. Once most of the sacks had been filled I too took my turn at donkey grooming - and found it a most relaxing experience.

Around 1pm most of the initial work had been completed. The children took the dogs and then some of the donkeys for a walk whilst the rest of us took a well earned break. Judy appeared with much appreciated cold beers and told me a bit more about the work of the CDR.

Started about 4 ½ years ago, the CDR is now a member society of WSPA (World Society for the Protection of Animals). It is also a Greek registered charity. Financially it survives wholly on the support of public donations and an adopt a donkey scheme. The sanctuary is staffed entirely by volunteers and the only full time worker there is Judy herself. Judy lives on site in a caravan so she can be on hand 24/7 and hasn’t received a wage since she opened. She personally survives thanks to the generosity and support of her family as her own savings have been swallowed up by the CDR running costs.

Why is there a need for a sanctuary like this? Historically the little Corfiot donkeys were used for carrying olives, garden produce and quite often their owners. During the last couple of decades the use of vehicular transport has increased hugely and the popularity of working donkeys has declined accordingly. Those people who do still keep them are often elderly and inevitably their donkeys sometimes outlive them. All this has resulted in a large number of unwanted, elderly and sadly sometimes neglected animals. With the exception of a one year old who was born at the CDR all of the donkeys are over 20 years of age.

With no other care facility on Corfu, Judy’s sanctuary has become home to a large number of them in recent years. Last winter the residency was up to 70 donkeys. Thankfully Judy was able to re-home 30 of the more healthy animals in sanctuaries in Austria and Holland, although the cost of 12,000 euros in transport and paperwork last year made even re-homing the animals a hugely expensive business.

Annual running costs are currently in the region of 65,000 euros. Judy has had to cut some corners, using cheap food brands which are not quite so nutritionally good for her charges, and often only being able to give them 2 meals a day rather than the 3 they would have in an ideal world. But the income does cover this and also bedding, medical and veterinary supplies. Many of the donkeys are not healthy animals - Xara’s leg was broken when she was hit by a car. It was allowed to heal without being set or splinted and months later she came to the CDR. Her bandaging and medication alone costs around 25 euros a week, but at least she is now living a pain free life. Some of the others are blind, lame or have suffered appalling neck and back injuries due to poorly fitting saddles or being forced to carry huge weights. The costs are high and it is clear that whilst she is coping Judy is only just making ends meet.

I asked Judy what would be of most assistance to her. In fact it isn’t money, it’s manpower, especially during the winter months. She needs a small band of regular volunteers to ensure that the daily running of the sanctuary can be maintained. As she suggested, if only she could find 14 people prepared to offer just 4 hours (a half day) a week she could have an extra pair of hands working with her each and every day. With the other pressures she is under, especially now as she is having to organise relocation and permits, the extra help could mean the difference between continuing and closure.

At that moment Judy’s phone rang. As she answered it a smile spread across her face and she gave me a big thumbs up sign. The caller was Michael Authauser who runs a huge animal shelter in Gut Aiderbichl, Austria and has twice previously helped by homing 16 of Judy’s donkeys. He had been expecting a visit from Judy in July and was calling to find out why she hadn’t been over. She explained the problems CDR are experiencing and by the end of the call Michael had promised they would home a further 15 donkeys at the end of the summer and would also help with the fundraising needed to transport them.

Whilst this doesn’t solve all Judy’s problems, it will mean fewer donkeys to look after this winter, and should make the proposed relocation of the CDR considerably less complicated.

We eventually left the stables mid afternoon, sunburnt, tired, smelly but happy. I shall certainly be going back to help out again - the kids loved it and I felt I had actually achieved something worthwhile with my day. If you have a little spare time I thoroughly recommend making a visit to see the donkeys - or even offer to volunteer, whether regularly or occasionally, there are always things to be done.

Further details of location, volunteering, visiting and donations, including the donkey adoption scheme can be found on the CDR website at www.corfu-donkeys.com, or by contacting Judy on (0030) 6947375992.

A barmaid (published July 2008)

2008-11-02T23:32:00.000-08:00

Carrying on last month’s tourism based theme, I spent a day this month at the Roundabout Bar serving refreshments to the hot and thirsty tourists of Roda. I had a quick 10 minute induction training from Stella, the regular daytime host at the bar, before being given a key and wished good luck for the following day, during which I would have sole responsibility for the place.

At 9am the next morning I pulled up outside, not quite sure what to expect. I’ve had plenty of experience of bar work in the UK years ago, but pulling a pint of Greene King bitter is not quite the same as making “Sex on the Beach” cocktails!

In the event it was all pretty straightforward. Unlock, let out the previous day’s stale beer smells, clean tables, ashtrays, bar tops, floors, loos and sinks. I did get a little tied up, or at least the mop head did, washing beneath all the chairs, but within an hour or two I had made the place sparkle and had even served a couple of soft drinks.

It was at about 11.30 that more customers started to arrive. “2 large beers please love”. No problem I thought. Draw a glass off to clear the beer left in the pipe, then put a clean glass to the tap. A millisecond of beer then, Woomph! I could have been at a foam party (had I been 20 years younger!) Covered in the dregs of the end of the barrel, I asked my customers if they’d mind an alternative brew as I was unsure how to change the barrel.

Half an hour and a kindly holidaying publican who changed the barrel for me, later, I was beginning to feel more confident. Then a party of four guests arrived. I thought from their accents that they were probably of the calibre of visitors who frequent some of the larger villas along the east coast. “An iced coffee and three cappuccinos please”, came the plummy voiced order. “Certainly sir” I smiled, then dashed into the kitchen with a worried look on my face.

Frappe is no problem, but cappuccino… um, do they have those sachets here, like the ones I used to use back in England? Cappuccino is something that Starbucks do, not barmaids. I looked at the menu and sure enough it said cappuccino. I then spent a frantic few minutes trying to locate the necessary sachets that I was sure must be lurking somewhere. I had no luck in finding any, but did “enjoy” the experience of being hit on the head by 400 falling teabags.

One frappe served. “I’m dreadfully sorry sir, it’s my first day here and I’m having trouble with the cappuccino, is there anything else I could get you, Nescafe perhaps”? The gentleman frowned a dreadful frown. “Nescafe? Oh no!! I don’t believe that we chose the only coffee shop here that can’t do a cappuccino” he grimaced to his party.

I seethed quietly, smiling through gritted teeth. “Well I haven’t given up yet sir, let me see what I can rustle up”.

Back in the kitchen I looked at the frappe whisk. Hmm, that just might do it. I located some ground cinnamon and drinking chocolate. At the table I enquired which topping they would prefer.

Two minutes later I had popped a generous teaspoonful of instant coffee in the bottom of each cup, frothed them to oblivion with the aid of a couple of jiggers of milk, topped up with hot water and liberally sprinkled cocoa powder on the top. Perfect!

The cups were drunk to the bottom without criticism, and when it came to paying the bill the gentleman said, quite condescendingly “there now, you won’t be so worried next time will you dear” and gave me a few cents tip.

I grinned inwardly, if only he knew!

A room maid (published June 2008)

2008-11-02T23:31:00.000-08:00

Thirty odd years ago I left school and enrolled on a hotel and catering course at the local college. During my time there I learned many things, from making a smooth béchamel sauce to pouring a decent pint, from taking bookings and food costing to completing the perfect hospital corner on a bed. After leaving college I spent several years working in the tourist industry until I eventually had a change of heart, and career, and moved to a 9 to 5 office job. So when I was invited to spend a day cleaning studios and apartments, as so many women do during the summer on Corfu, I thought fine - it’ll be just like the old days!

How wrong could I have been?

Firstly came the good news. I didn’t have to get to work until 9.30am - few of the guests were likely to be out of their rooms until after 10. When I had worked as a chambermaid in the late 1970s we used to get up at 6.30am to make and take tea trays to our guests rooms. At least I would get a lay in this morning I thought cheerily. Well yes, it’s true I didn’t get up until about 7am, but which time the day was beginning to warm up. By the time I reached the apartments I was to work in the sun was high in the sky, the humidity was rocketing and the air temperature was heading towards the mid 40s.

I reported for duty promptly, and was shown around the housekeeper’s room by the full time maid. Whilst bed sheets and slips were sent to the laundry, towels and bath mats were washed “in house”. My first duty was to empty the huge commercial washing machines of their last load and peg the towels out to dry. 80 odd towels later I’d already burnt the back of my neck from being in the direct sunshine!

I was then shown the work chart. The accommodation comprised 5 studio apartments with bathroom and kitchenette, and 9 two bedroomed two bathroomed villas, with a separate kitchen/dining area. If full the place could accommodate around 50 holidaymakers.

Thankfully the owners ran a staggered system so not all the rooms would require full cleans and linen changes on the same day. Thankfully that is because the total staffing complement for room cleaning was just two people, and today one of those people was me.

We worked our way through the chart, sorting out the linens for the rooms that did require bed changes. Some would just need beds made, fresh towels and a “quick once over”, others were to be vacated so would need full cleans and laundry throughout. We piled a trolley high with linens, ensured that we had a good assortment of cleaning paraphernalia, and not forgetting a ready supply of bin liners off we went into the sunshine.

Five and a half hours, three studios, and six villas later I was fit to drop! We had cleaned 15 bathrooms (I’m not squeamish by nature, but the rubber gloves had to go on for some of those loos), nine kitchens, made or changed some 25 beds - not to mention trying to extract several hundred tiny round BB gun pellets from under one young guest’s bed. We’d mopped more floors than you could shake a broom at, swept umpteen verandas, washed shutters, polished mirrors and beaten rugs until I could hardly stand upright.

Were we finished? Were we heck! After a five minute break and quick litre of ice cold water, we were back hard at work. All the dirty laundry had to be collected, taken to the housekeeper’s room, sorted between the in-house washing and the laundry items. We had to bundle up the linens to go and re-fill the washing machines. I then had to bring in the 80 now dry towels, fold them and put them on the shelves whilst the other maid went to pick up all the bin liners full of rubbish we’d taken from the rooms and take them to the municipal bins.

I got home a little before 5pm. My neck and shoulders were sunburnt, my T shirt was ruined - splattered with bleach, I ached from my feet to my head and I’d ripped no less than 3 fingernails by catching them on the frames of the pine beds when lifting mattresses. To top it all I’d lost a dress size and gained athletes foot due to perspiration! All I wanted was a warm shower and a good sleep.

So if you are lucky enough to be reading this as you sit by the side of a clear blue pool, or on your terrace looking out over the sea to Albania with a cold drink to hand, please do enjoy your holiday on this wonderful island. But please also spare a thought for your room maid. It’s hard, heavy, soul destroying work. The hours are long, and for many it’ll be a seven day week from May to October. The pay is low (3 to 5 euros an hour isn’t uncommon), and I’ll leave it to your imagination who the lucky person who has to empty your loo bin is…