I seem to have been barred from the hospital. Most unfortunate, since I've never been barred from anywhere else before. Of course I'm not sure I am really barred, we could put it down to a mere 'clash of cultures'. Anyway I scooted off back to the hotel. I now sit opposite a wheel shop - any kind of wheel or roller you might like, but passed other curiosities- a shop full of very shiny suits for instance, but spent 'lunch' in the pretty cool beach bar. I have never paid as much for a whisky in my life except at Zurich airport. We stayed there for ages as they buggered about with Pete in the hospital up the hill. We inhabit a form of zombie existence. The bar was good because the furnishings were well chosen, the hollow steel sections of it's structure and servicing articulate, and the music perfectly chilled Ibiza, it had air con, and nobody was there apart from three dogs. I like the beach dogs. We just stared out to sea and drank. I never thought I could find the passing of a boat so absorbing, but the Greeks have no problem with it. The Greeks do have a problem with styling however, even though I'm less than sartorial myself. The ladies inhabit a form of eighties fashion disaster and the blokes wear tee shirts with 'Hollywood VIP Decadence' printed on them.

Pete appears to be improving. We will be home on Thursday. At least that is the plan.