As I sit here watching a documentary on Greek television about Churchill (it's the only channel I can get which has anything apart from news), I've been reflecting on my foray out onto the streets just now to get my supper.
At the start of my outing, the streets were heaving; it was about 6.45, and a few shops were open selling food for the break of the fast at about 7.10. People were very ebullient, and there were cars doing handbrake turns in the street - like Christmas Eve every night for a month. A lot of people were taking the air - no smoking or coffee of course. I went into one shop to get butter, not a very common commodity here. Another customer pointed out that it was an animal product, and was it what I really wanted. Very helpful, I thought. Then off I went to get some bread. No charge, of course. And finally I collected some fruit. Whilst completing this transaction, the vendor asked me where I was eating this evening, so I told him I'd be in my flat. Would I like to share a meal with him and his family, he asked. I'd never met him before! I declined, but was so touched.
By the time I reached home, all the hullabaloo had died down as though a cloak had been thrown over the town. Hardly a car moved, barely a child played, and the only sound was that of deliciously pungent food sizzling in a thousand kitchens.
