The previous posts concerning earthquakes I wrote on Saturday, then on Sunday at 6.20PM we bloody well got another one. I felt the floor lift slightly under my feet, and again that rumble penetrated right through to my bones. I assured Caroline that lots of mini-quakes in an earthquake area are a good thing, because they’re relieving whatever pressure is building up deep underground – better lots of little ones rather than none for a long time then a big bugger to catch up. She remains unconvinced.
Category: Articles
Writing Update
Last week I emailed the edited version of The Departure back to Macmillan and, just ten or so minutes after that, Julie Crisp replied telling me she was already printing the thing up. Next the copy editor will be giving it a going over, I’ll see it once or twice more, and the Macmillan millstones will grind, Jon Sullivan will doubtless do something brilliant, then copies of the book will drop steaming off the presses. August, maybe.
Now I’m back on Zero Point. On beginning to read through what I’d already written, I felt uncomfortable with particular events in it and excised them, tightening up the plotting. I’m still reading through and know that there’s a particular section later on I may well remove. It strikes me as gratuitously violent for its own sake and turns what I think is a particularly well-considered villain into a bit of a parody. Now we all know that I’m not particularly averse to a bit of gratuitous violence, but there’s plenty of that in the book already, and definitely more to come.
The book is at 65,000 words, an extra 1,500 word section recently added to fill in a plot hole even before I reach the end of this read-through. I’m currently wondering about time, distances, radio delays, slingshots, planetary orbits and relativity, and wish I had an Alastair Reynolds on tap. As it is, when I’ve easy access to the Internet, I’ll have to do some of that stuff which in interviews I’ve constantly denied doing: research. Made-up solar systems are easy, but a hell of a lot is already known about our one and I could easily write something that’ll have the anoraks emailing me in protest.
Insurance
In my previous post I talked about an earthquake and, when discussing that subject with others, it evinces some surprise when I say that our house is not insured. Why, people wonder. I’ll tell you why. There’s the language barrier of first finding out what you’re paying for and then making a claim. I guarantee that the whole process of the latter would be full of pit traps, would grind along at a snail’s pace and that by the time we got any money all the repairs would have been made and paid for and we’d be on a pension.
Then there’s earthquakes: financially Greece is a seriously fucked-up country and if there was an earthquake here on Crete large enough to collapse our house I’m damned sure that nearly every other house on Crete would be rubble too, and shortly after that the insurance companies would be disappearing in a puff of debt and bullshit. Then there’s fire. The house will not burn down. Concrete and stone and tiled floors are not exactly flammable. It could be damaged inside if the sofa or a bed caught fire, but that’s a risk I’m prepared to take. Flood, of course, is irrelevant – we’re 700 metres up on top of a mountain. I would rather squirrel the money away for that rainy day – a day that might never occur. And finally, insurance companies aren’t out to do anyone any favours. They are casino owners full of overpaid jerks who will squirm like hooked worms to avoid giving any money back.
Let me illustrate that last point. Last year, at the age of 54, my brother Martin was diagnosed with oesaphageal cancer. He told us he would have chemo, then a piece of his oesophagus removed, some further treatment after that, be back on track. He neglected to mention that at best he had five years, and none of us considered checking. Certainly my 83-year-old mother didn’t know about the odds and the survival rates you can find on the Internet. Really, you don’t expect your son to die at that age.
Whilst this was occurring, my mother booked a two week holiday in Thailand, paying out about £3,000 which included the requisite insurance. She wants to get her holidays in whilst she still has a chance. Maybe in another five years she won’t be capable which, when you consider what I just wrote above, is highly relevant.
Before she got to go to Thailand, Martin came out of hospital, but then went straight back. He wasn’t healing up and soon they discovered another cancer in his torso. He hadn’t got long to live. My mother cancelled her holiday and, of course, the holiday company refused to give a refund. She then made a claim on her insurance. Whilst my brother was dying in hospital, the insurance company wriggled and squirmed, threw paperwork at her, refused to pay. Apparently an insurance payment for the cancellation of a holiday didn’t apply if it concerned a family member with cancer. Apparently we all need to be both oncologists and precognitive when buying insurance. She took it to the Ombudsman, but no joy there either – just another bunch of useless bureaucrats feathering their own nests.
Be warned: A family member with cancer, even one with a good prognosis, might have the temerity to start dying, and you won’t be able to claim back the money you paid out for that holiday so you can be at the bedside, or the funeral.
My mother lost a son and £3,000. Obviously the second hardly mattered in the light of the first, which is just the kind of shit insurance companies rely on.
My take on all this, as regards our house, is that I would rather my money went straight to a builder or furniture shop, if needed, rather than to that bunch of besuited fucking parasites.
Tiles & Quakes.
It now being cool enough for us to have become wimpishly Greek about the temperature of the sea and disinclined to head straight down to Makrigialos once my writing is done, we’re spending more time in the house. It has also been cool enough for me to contemplate the idea of shifting maybe a tonne of tiles from where they would be delivered, which in a mountain village on Crete means never by the house and in our case means at the top of fifty metres of sloping track, after which they must be taken up steps and a further twenty metres of upwards sloping path. So last Thursday we went to the tile shop and ordered what we’d already decided we wanted. This was 85 square metres of assorted tiles, a toilet, a sink, taps and shower and a shower cabinet. They acted fast upon receiving the order and most of what we wanted was delivered at about 6.30PM.
First I helped unload the truck, then I took some of the tiles down as far as the steps in a couple of wheelbarrows. Caroline took these – the bathroom tiles – up and round to the ruin, whilst I carried the rest the whole distance. I finished at about 8.00, had to have a shower afterwards because I was pouring with sweat, then had to cool down for a while before eating anything. Two days later I got that familiar ‘who the fuck worked me over with a baseball bat’ feeling that comes after a weight-training session conducted after a long break, but back to Thursday evening…
After a meal of tempura prawns and garlic bread, we sat watching TV, first a silly American series that is growing on me called The Nanny, then an episode on DVD of Foyle’s War. During this we heard a rumble, like some massive blast from the quarry in the mountains opposite, but this rumble seemed to penetrate right through to the bones. Caroline got halfway out of her seat and paused, but it passed, no need to get out into the open. Really, we shouldn’t worry too much about Earthquakes here – our house has been standing for centuries so the chances are that it will stand for further centuries.
Later we found out that the quake was 4.4 on the Richter scale and southwest of Iraklion, which is basically where we are. It wasn’t really of great note, and it’s always a bastard explaining logarithmic scales to someone and that no, a quake of 5 is not half the strength of a 10. We did have a better one two years ago in the middle of June. This was located just off of Ierapetra and weighed in at just over 6 on the Richter scale.
At about 3.00AM I woke up to a terrible racket. It seemed to me that someone angry had got hold of our front door and was slamming it back and forth in an attempt to get in (the door is loose at that time of year – it shrinks about a centimetre). As I really started to wake up it felt like someone had just opened a branch of the London underground directly below our house and now a train was passing through. I could feel it as well as hear it, and seemed to be able to track its progress below. We didn’t know whether we should get outside – apparently some of our neighbours did – and by the time we were coming to a decision about that, it was all over. No real damage. A crack had opened up in a newly painted wall but, over the ensuing week, it closed up again and effectively disappeared. I guess that’s one of the benefits of having a house partially constructed of mud and sitting on zero foundations – it is somewhat elastic.
Chilli Sauce
I finally managed to accumulate just shy of a kilo of assorted chillies and most of them being pretty damned hot I decided to bulk them out with a couple of red peppers. Into the pan I put a cup of vinegar and one of sugar (though part of that sugar was actually honey). I blitzed the chillies, the peppers and a whole bulb of about twenty or so cloves of garlic and bunged them in the pan too. I started heating this, to melt the sugar and render things down a bit, but noted that the whole mix was a bit dense, so added another cup each of sugar and vinegar. I brought it to the boil, let it cool a bit then whisked in a dessert spoonful of plain flower to thicken it. Still not the right consistency so I added another spoonful, then brought the lot up to a rolling boil ready to jar. I heated some jars (burning my finger in the process), scooped the mixture in and popped the lids on. There was just a little left over which went into a small bowl. In the evening we had samozas, bhaijas and spring rolls, dipped in this sauce and lathered with a peanut sauce Caroline had made. Absolutely delicious!
The Cabbiano
The name of the restaurant was Gabbiano on the hanging sign and on the front of the building, but Cabbiano on the knapkins and a few other items inside. The hanging sign is now ‘Cabbiano’ and doubtless the front will be changed too. Maybe this is due to both C and G not existing in the Greek alphabet?
We bought our house off of Stelios, our parents have stayed in the apartments above the Cabbiano and we’ve eaten in the restaurant for three years. There was one slight hiccup last year when the entire restaurant went non-smoking and I refused to go back. However, I found out that this was because they were worried about being hit by a heavy fine for infringing rules that were unclear to every bar and restaurant owner across Greece.
The Cabbiano is jointly owned (as far as I am aware) by the three brothers: Stelios, Yorgos and Marco. But there are others who have been there for quite a while like Nico (17 years I believe), who every now and again, along with Stelios, entertains the customers with some Greek dancing; the girls labouring in the kitchen; and now we have the new addition of Maria (Marco’s eldest daughter, I think). Here some pictures of them all, starting first with that Makrigialos entrepreur, Stelios:
Here’s Marco who’s raki flavoured with honey and cinnamon is delicious, and who is also an enthusiastic gardener who seems to have started a banana plantation in Makrigialos.
Here’s Yorgos, who works away in the kitchen with the girls (one of whom is his wife) to produce meal upon excellent meal even when twenty Norwegians just popped in for dinner. He also makes a pomegranite and galliano raki that’s good:
Here’s Maria:
Here are the girls who were kind enough to pose even though they were in the midst of cooking on a busy evening:
Here finally is Nico, who it took three attempts (on the final attempt having to force him down into a chair) before I could take a decent picture. First he decided to do some drinks tray spinning, then he decided to walk on his hands between the tables…
Beside the enjoyable food and wine, it’s a pleasure to sit in this restaurant and watch them operate, at great speed, meanwhile exchanging a joke or two with the customers, in their own language, be they Norwegian, Swedish, French, German or English.
Not a Lot.
Brief Blog.
Today (morning)
We remember the date of the first heavy rain here last year because, well, it’s a date that sticks in many people’s minds: the 11th of September. We were wondering if it would come at the same time this year but no, it came a day late on the 12th. I think ‘rain’ is perhaps too weak a term to describe it, ‘monsoon’ a better one. A bit of a cloud started building up over Papagianades and it started spitting in the morning. This increased to a heavy shower by midday and then by about 2.00 o’clock the garden was under about an inch of water, the water butt was full and streams were running down the paths here. This continued to about 5.00 and then began to peter out. It was a heavy downpour but not in the league of some we had when in our first year we stayed for the winter.
On New Years Eve 2007 we had a monsoon that lasted for 10 hours. To celebrate this date we drove down to Makrigialos at about 6.00, when it was starting, got thoroughly soaked running from the car to the Status Bar, and remained in that bar until about 4.30 in the morning. During the journey home I didn’t go any faster than about 5 miles an hour, carefully negotiating streams that had carried rocks all across the road along with about three car-killer boulders, all in a visibility that ended about five feet in front of the car. The cherry on the top was when we got into the house and Caroline complained about having wet feet. Water was coming in at the base of the bedroom wall and had flooded that room, the hall, and had created a little water feature over the step into the kitchen.
No leaks this year (so far), which I’m quite glad about since it also looks like it’s getting ready to piss down today.
Off to Ziros today to pay the water bill, and I have to muster up my best Greek to try and tell them that we’ve been overcharged for three years. Here, just like in Britain, they have a waste water charge. It comes to 15 Euros every two months for our waste water to go into the big village pipe and away. However, our waste water pipe just opens onto the messy ground opposite our house and isn’t actually attached to the village pipe. Should be fun. I’ll probably get nowhere.
I’ve passed page 300 of The Departure’s 446 pages. Peter Lavery has been quite vicious with his pencil again. I reckon that if there was ever such a thing as the perfect paragraph, he’s of the opinion that it’s something I’ve yet to write. However, I don’t resent this. I’ve learned huge amounts from this old-school editor with his University of Dublin classical education. And I do wonder how things will be for new writers now as editors like him are becoming more of a rarity.
Righto, no success with the water bill. Apparently you have to pay for the waste water pipe even if you’re not connected to it. It seems totally areshole to me, but nowhere near as bad as the £1000+ we have to pay in council tax in Britian each year for, effectively, getting our rubbish taken away.
