In which we acclimatise nicely to villa life.
Coming to a screen near you.
Rhodes, sunshine and the (brief) return of Paris
He scrawls his number on a card. “You have trouble, you call me, Alexandra.” (The Greeks love my name.) “Just call,” he urges, eyes crinkling around the edges.
Have I said this before? How wonderfully disorientating I find it to land in a foreign place after dark, not knowing what to expect when you wake the next day…
Apart from that, we shall eat and drink and shop. What’s French for ‘like, obviously’?
In which I crush on rainy Italy.