The world from my window

At the Corfu tax office, the staff are dressed in polo shirts, jeans and trainers. A ticket machine spews out a piece of paper with a number on it and we wait in turn, as if we are standing at the deli counter at Morrisons for two Scotch eggs and four slices of ham. A young man with the chiselled face of an ancient Greek shuffles large bundles of paper very loudly, making his presence felt in a hubbub of voices in a foreign tongue. And then, after ten minutes, we are at the front of the queue. A few signatures, lots of stamping and we're done. We emerge from the tax office, a five-storey, grubby building faced with light grey marble, air conditioning units outside every window. Teenage boys use the front courtyard as a skateboard ramp and a melange of mopeds and scooters are parked against a low wall. We take in the hustle and bustle around us - with a tax number we are now part of this, after all - and it begins to rain. And rain and rain and rain. And there's me weari...

As my resourceful Odysseus - Mr Grigg to you and me - makes sure our boat is watertight,  I am longing to be home. I am in the Ionian - see here - and the rain is pouring down like a patio water-feature set on high-speed. We have had thunder and lightning so loud and bright it could have been Zeus sending us a message from on high. We have family who need us back home and I am desperately missing The Enchanted Village and all its comings and goings. Even in paradise, things are not always as they seem. 'There is only one place to be when the weather is like this,' I say to Mr Grigg. 'Where's that?' he says, writing his daily log boat in the shelter of the cabin. 'Home.' That's about it. Love Maddie x