It's odd, staying for free in a posh hotel when you're not a big earner yourself. Apart from the whole area of etiquette (e.g. at breakfast you must NOT register surprise at the large vase of water on your table with pebbles at the bottom and a large lemon bobbing around in it, still less remove the lemon and hurl it into the fireplace while shouting “Bravo!”) there's also the fact that everything is just so bloody expensive. Last night I decided in my fashion-conscious wisdom that a particular shirt of mine could do with an iron. I attempted to borrow an iron and an ironing board, but the Capri Palace Hotel do not allow irons in rooms. They're probably concerned that you'll accidentally flatten everything in sight, and perhaps with good reason, I don't know. Anyway, returning to the room I found that a tray had been placed on the bed with a laundry list on it. This list advised me that to have one shirt ironed would set me back 15 Euros, or about £10. The shirt wasn't worth much more than that in the first place. I thought about setting myself up as a rival ironing service in the building, undercutting by about 5 Euros and still making a tidy profit. But I didn't. I just wore a creased shirt.

By the way, if you ever wondered what happened to Peabo Bryson, who I seem to remember did a duet with Roberta Flack in about 1983 called “Tonight I Celebrate My Love For You”, I think he provides dismal backing tapes for restaurants in Italian luxury hotels.

Three types of luxury hotel guests, and the way they request coffee

1. (this group includes myself): “Hello! I don't, um, don't suppose I could have some coffee? Please? Oh, thanks ever so much.”
2. (raises hand without looking up from newspaper): “Coffee.”
3. (I've not actually seen this but I'm sure it must have happened): “Listen here, you slimy piece of sh*t, where's my coffee?”

Needless to say, it's number 3 who commands the greatest respect. The more polite and humble you are, the more you're ignored, it seems.

Last night we prepared very badly for this morning's 2.5 hour boat trip round the island by staying up until the early hours drinking Grappa, Limoncello and Sambuca. The Irish couple, Michael and Yvette, can certainly put it away, and we complained jokingly to our guide when we arrived late this morning that they were a bad influence; of course the Irish had already told her that we in fact were the bad influence… Anyway, being in possession of an enormous hangover is not the best way to ensure a calm stomach while bobbing around in a little boat. The majority of the trip was spent looking at sheer cliffs such as this:

The arrow indicates a small hole in the cliff face, where we decided it would be a bit annoying to live, especially if you decided that you wanted to attend an evening class. And you'd never persuade the milkman to deliver, either… Around the base of these cliffs are a multitude of “danger of falling rocks” signs. One thing became apparent: there's nothing more likely to warn you properly of the dangers of falling rocks, than a “danger of falling rocks” sign which has been smashed to the ground by a number of large falling rocks.

There wasn't a great deal to see, and the limestone crags became slightly monotonous. Occasionally I'd attempt to amuse Jenny by saying, slowly, “I'm a salty sea dog… but those people, over there, they are land lubbers. That's right, land lubbers.” I failed, obviously. She attempted to amuse me by pointing at a distant building, saying, equally slowly, “I'm keen on finding out more about that pagoda-like structure over there…. but of course it's not interested in me, at all…. it's unlikely to let me know its phone number…. or reveal where it regularly drinks…. So I suppose that's that.”

There was a moment of excitement where one of the engines cut out on the boat, causing some distress to the “captain” of the vessel. After radioing for help, a dinghy skimmed across the waves containing a man in a wetsuit. He exchanged a few words with the captain, who handed him a standard kitchen knife. He disappeared from view:

and re-emerged a few seconds later, handed back the knife, and we went on our way. It's amazing what the contents of your kitchen drawer can do, if you put your mind to it. Perhaps try something similar yourself, this evening.

The point of the journey was to visit the “Blue Grotto”, a hole in the cliffs through which you travel in a rowing boat, piloted by a singing oarsman who gives you a rendition of “O Sole Mio” which sounds pretty impressive when rebounding off the walls of the enormous cavern within. There is an astonishing blue light in there, apparently. I say apparently because I foolishly went in while wearing prescription sunglasses. If I kept them on, I could see nothing because it was way too dark; if I took them off I could see nothing on account of being horribly myopic. So it was all a bit of a waste of time, really.

We arrived back at the Grand Marina where our journey began, and a loud elderly American chap who had been cackling with laughter at his own gags throughout the whole journey, stepped onto the quayside and let loose an enormous “Woo!”, a noise more suitable for moon landings. Elderly Americans are generally good entertainment value on foreign jaunts, I think. I remember someone at Rome airport who was trying to get some money out of a cash machine, failing horribly, and ended up calling out to his wife – “Mary! Mary!! How do you work this damn thing, Mary?” This has since become a recurring theme for Jenny and I during those long, bored silences that inevitably happen between us when abroad. “Mary! Mary! Why is everyone speaking in goddamn foriegn, Mary?”

A nice image from Italian TV, to round off with: