First things first—I’ve officially broken my own rule and I apologise. All week I’ve been smugly tapping away at these posts like some sort of disciplined, well-adjusted human being with structure and routine. And then, like all good habits, it went straight out the window the moment raki got involved. So yes—this is late. And…
Let me start with an apology. Not a polite, British “sorry”—one of those real apologies where you acknowledge you’ve made choices, and those choices are now writing the blog for you. I am, at present, pickled. Not gently infused. Not delicately marinated. I am a full-blown raki preservation project. Somewhere between glass seven and “who’s…
Crete, you magnificent, sandy beast. You know it’s time to leave when the island itself starts coughing you out like a goat hacking up a hairball of raki-soaked tourists and dead sea urchins. Day 10 in Crete, and Mother Nature decided to throw a party of her own. Not the good kind with souvlaki, retsina,…
I woke up today with a hangover so biblical, I half-expected to find stone tablets on the bedside table and a burning bush in the bathroom. The aftermath of yesterday’s ouzo debauchery had settled deep into my bones — the kind of hangover that makes you question all your life choices, your belief in hydration,…