The world from my window

Outside the Church of St Spyridon, it is standing room only. The devoted and curious push their way in to see and hear and smell the splendour of the service in the golden, candelit interior. Nearly all the shops and businesses are closed as islanders mark St Spyridon's Day, when Corfu's patron sain t is celebrated and Spiros and Spirodoulas across Greece enjoy name-day parties and buy drinks for all their friends. It is a special day too for the small gift shops next to the church where the saint's relics are kept in a highly decorated casket. They are busy selling candles and icons and worry beads. Stalls nearby, manned by minor holy men, receive a steady trickle of customers while the doughnuts stands do a roaring trade. At the main entrance to the church, a beautiful beggar woman and her two children are handed bread torn off from rolls given to the congregation. The children gorge on plastic cups filled with pine nuts, sultanas, walnuts, sesame s...

After a week of abstemious eating and drinking, I was looking forward to preparing Mr Grigg's supper. As I absent-mindedly chopped the carrots, thoughts wandering to faraway places, the lights went out. 'Bugger,' I said aloud, as Mr Grigg was down in the garage foraging for logs. I groped around for the wind-up torch Mr Grigg had brought back from the conference and then checked the trip switches. All were fine. I opened the front door and the village square was as black as a bag. Bliss. No horrible street lights. Across the road, Mrs Bancroft's house was dark and I could see candles being lit in the pub some 25 yards away. The phone rang. It was Nobby Odd-Job, ringing from the power-cut free zone at the top of the village. 'I'm a bit worried about Mrs Bancroft,' he said. 'She rang me and left a message to say she was sitting in the dark and wondered if I was too. I went down but there was no-one there so I went to the pub. I've just tried to ring he...