I also had the familiar problem of not knowing what time Iwas going to wake up in the morning. What if I’d been drinking heavily thenight before and didn’t wake up until lunchtime? This had been the case on morethan one occasion already during the week I had spent there.
I checked the ferry timetables. There was one at 7.30am, andthe next one at 9.45am. I really needed to be on that first one, but I knew theodds were against me, and so it was proved when I awoke, just after 9am.
Fortunately my parents were still asleep, which spared meany lengthy explanations.
I didn’t want to worry them, so I hastily scribbled down anote and left it on the tiny kitchen table:
Met a girl in a taverna last night, and gone on a trip toCorfu. Back tomorrow, love Tom.
They would be annoyed, but hopefully that would be all. Ileft all of my clothes and my suitcase: I wouldn’t need them. The only thing Ineeded was my passport and hopefully they wouldn’t think to look for it.
My father’s wallet was on the table next to where I left thenote. It was bloated with drachmas. One of the things I liked about the Greekcurrency was that the notes went down to really small denominations, as low as50 drachmas which equated to about 20p. It was easy to feel rich in Paxos,flashing the huge wads around even on my relatively meagre holiday funds.
I was tempted to take some because what I had was nowherenear enough to get me home, but consequences or not, I could not bring myselfto steal from my own parents. I’d have to look for some other opportunity enroute.
I walked quickly down the stony path between the olive treesthat led towards the harbour, the sun already hot on my skin even at this earlyhour.
There were plenty of people getting onto the ferry,including several English tourists laden with suitcases, none of whom Irecognised. That was a good sign. That meant they must be going home today, andthat meant that there would be at least one flight back to the UK that I couldtry and get myself on.
Quite how, I wasn’t sure. What if they were all fullybooked?
Once I was on the boat, I spent some time wandering aroundthe deck, sussing out the other passengers. Paxos wasn’t an obvious packageholiday destination so there were not many family groups. It was mainly couplesand quite a few singles. I got chatting to a few, and it turned out they wereall on the same flight, the 1.15pm to Manchester.
That wasn’t much use to me. I was pretty sure that it wouldbe full, being a package holiday flight and even if I could get on it,Manchester was a long way from Oxford. I also still had very little money.
Fortunately, that was about to change. I really didn’t likestealing, despite the endless opportunities available to me. Nicking the oddbar of chocolate from the newsagent’s was one thing. Stealing some poor guy’swallet was quite another.
Fortunately, my reservations about doing so were quite laidto rest when I encountered the most unpleasant pair of holidaymakers I had evercome across.
Jim and Sandra were from Salford, and as I walked around thedeck of the boat, I could hear him moaning from a mile off in his broadMancunian accent.
“Worst bloody holiday ever,” he was going on. “Disgustingfood, no proper beach and you can’t even flush the toilet paper down the bog.”
His wife was just as bad, bemoaning the lack of a McDonald’s.I listened as they recanted one complaint after another.
What the hell had they come here for, I wondered. Presumablythey must normally go to Benidorm or somewhere like that. Whatever possessedthem to choose Paxos?
My experience had been completely at odds with theirs. Allof the food I’d had on the island had been amazing. Most of it was home-cookedby family-run restaurants, some of which seemed to amount to little more than acouple of tables in someone’s back garden.
It was all traditional Greek food, such as taramasalata andplenty of freshly caught fish. The swordfish steaks I’d eaten had been awesome.A fishing boat came into the harbour each morning and the fisherman would throwa couple of swordfish out onto the harbour front.
He’d jump off the boat, chop it into steaks with a heftycleaver in front of a circle of onlookers, and then the various restaurantowners would buy what they wanted from him there and then, ready to cook thatnight. You don’t get much fresher than that.
But presumably Jim and Sandra would rather have had cod andchips.
The two had to be seen to be believed. I’d seenstereotypical characters moaning about foreigners in reruns of old 70s sitcoms.I hadn’t believed such people really existed until now.
“I’m going up to get a beer,” said Jim. “Probably thatAmstel rubbish as usual. I can’t wait to get back to the Queens for a properpint.”
I watched him go up to the bar, wallet sticking out of theback pocket of his ridiculously tight Bermuda shorts that were at least twosizes too small for his fat arse. It looked like it was bulging with cash whichsurprised me, considering that it was the last day of his holiday.
This was too good an opportunity to miss. He had money, andhe was also an arsehole. I could steal from him, conscience clear. I saunteredup casually behind him, watched him take out his wallet to order his beer, andthen slip it back in the same place. With a slight deft of hand, I swiped hiswallet without him or anyone else noticing and quickly walked to the other endof the boat.
I didn’t have long; surely he would notice the wallet wasmissing when he sat down. They were sitting near the bow of the boat, and I wasnow safely at the stern. Quickly I opened the wallet and was delighted todiscover that the majority of the notes in it were not Greek at all, but goodold sterling.
The bloke had more money
