Ealing North
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Steve Pound MP Ealing North |
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On this island we call... Corfu September 2002 It's usually hard to put a finger on the exact moment when your children stop believing that you're Superman. One minute you're the Dad who can do anything - the next you're a miserable loser. Usually the defining moment involves body piercings but, in my case, it was the eccentric driving habits of the Greeks. Having realised that the invitation to join Tony and Cherie in Italy wasn't going to come we booked a last minute bottom of the barrel package fortnight in Corfu. At first I think that I still had the respect of my children and fellow holidaymakers. I thought that I cut a rather sophisticated figure with baggy shorts, sandals worn with thick wool socks, handkerchief casually knotted on sunburnt and peeling head and a well-worn Fulham t-shirt celebrating promotion from the Third Division. As I sat in the shade of a friendly taverna sipping a lager and glancing at the Greek edition of the "Daily Mirror" while watching Sky Sports on the big screen I knew that no-one would guess for a minute that I was from England. For some reason the children pretended that I was not their father. In a pathetic attempt to win back their affection I reluctantly agreed to hire a car to "see something of the island". I brushed aside their concern that I had never driven outside the UK and almost convinced them that Dads can do anything. Certainly the booking was delightfully easy. It is amazing how quickly the Greeks have said farewell to the oldest currency in Europe and embraced the Euro. Instead of having to do massively complicated mental arithmetic the process of hiring a car in Euros was simplicity itself. Driving in Corfu proved to be rather more difficult. I know that there are people who can hop into a left-hand drive car and whiz along on the wrong side of the road with no trouble at all. I am not one of these fortunate people. Having spent a cautious 45 minutes backing out of the car park I found it almost impossible to avoid straying into the left land lane. Fortunately the Greeks are a tolerant people and the cheerful hand and finger gestures that they waved at me were, I am sure, friendly local greetings. Then came the lorry. Lorries all over the world drive in the middle of the road. In Corfu there is not much road left when the middle is occupied and I suddenly found myself, car and family rolling off into a gully on the edge of a precipitous cliff. As we all edged to one side of the seats I tried to regain the road with no success at all. Suddenly two cars drew up on the highway and ten body-builders on the way to a tournament in Corfu Town leapt athletically out. With perfect synchronisation, clearly born of long practice, they surrounded the car and carried it up the hill and back onto the road. Whether muscular Corfiot weightlifters patrol the roads in anticipation of such disasters I never discovered. Mrs. P. was very keen to investigate the matter further and had to be restrained from taking the car out herself and flinging it off the highway in case the men with oiled muscles and very tight shorts re-appeared. I returned to the bar, full of shame and aware that I had utterly failed in the sight of the children. Now I am the Dad who can't drive. Things will never be the same again. |
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| Disclaimer | Copyright | Designed by Bassam Mahfouz. Promoted by Julian Bell, The Labour Party, Ruskin Hall, 16 Church Road, W3 8PP on behalf of Steve Pound MP |
