The aerogram, short on postage, and sealed with Sellotape, reads as follows:Santorini, the Greek islands.
I was skirting the rabbit warren of tourist streets when I came upon your columnist, Lapsley. He was seated, his feet dangling in a fish bowl. The bowl had about 200 other inhabitants.
''What ho, Lapsley? Can't afford a rod and reel?''
''Not quite, Your Honour. I'm taking fish foot therapy. You hang your feet in the fish bowl, and the fish give them a clean and polish.''
''Really? These fish are trained podiatrists?'' I asked.
''Not podiatrists - Garra rufa fish,'' he said learnedly.
''The ancient Turks discovered they enjoy nibbling dead skin off your feet. It costs 10 bucks for a treatment. And they don't hurt you - it just tickles.''
Swarms of fish the size of tadpoles attacked Lapsley's feet, paying particular attention to the gaps between his toes.
''It's a bit like flossing your teeth. And it cures psoriasis,'' he added.
''You're barking mad.''
I told him.
''You've fallen for another tourist gimmick.''
He looked at his feet sadly.
''Perhaps. But a man will try anything when he has a column due and nothing to write about. Fresh material is the always the challenge.''
''Nonsense, I could write your tripe standing on my ear. Week in, week out.''
Your columnist responded with a tirade fit for a fishmonger. Eventually, to appease him, I agreed to help him through his holiday by writing today's column for him. (As I said, it's a piece of cake).
I left your man negotiating a special rate for having the fish launder six pairs of socks.
You'll have read our namby pamby Chief Justice insisted I take holidays. Thus Myrtle and I set forth on a Mediterranean cruise. Two days out from Athens, I emerged from my stateroom for dinner, and bumped into Lapsley. Grief - the people they let on to cruise ships.
''Are you lost?'' I asked him.
''I don't think Steerage Class is allowed on this deck.''
It turns out Lapsley, and his companion the Duchess, are only a dozen doors down the passage. Perhaps the presence of the Duchess explains his being allowed up here with myself and the other luminaries. (Myrtle, who sucks up to the Duchess, has heard a wild rumour that she hails from Lower Hutt, but I find this unlikely).
This cruise ship idea may become popular. We're on board the Insignia, operated by a smart crowd called Oceania, and broadly speaking, the mission is to eat our way from Athens to Istanbul, stopping each day to recuperate at some Greek island or Turkish port.
There are five restaurants, and the rota is breakfast, lunch, afternoon tea, high tea, dinner, plus room service via your butler, when one feels peckish in between. The ''butler'' was a Filipino lass with bands on her teeth, but to be fair she knew her onions.
The service was very good all round, but I question whether the Scotsman employed as a ''Shopping Lecturer'' was strictly necessary. The likes of Myrtle require little further training.
I know the media looks forward to my ground-breaking judgements, so you will be panting to hear my thoughts on the Greek Islands.
Those who value history know European civilisation was periodically destroyed by invading barbarians - savages like the Mongols, the Visigoths, the Huns, and Bomber Command.
The Greek Islands, where artistic types once retreated to paint or slave over the Great Novel, have been swamped by the teeming hordes of the touring middle classes.
They crowd out the sights, the shops, and the bazaars, a lowing herd that lumbers ever onward through a swarming haze of hawkers.
I'm told the main difference between this invasion of people like your columnist, and that of the Mongol hordes, is the Mongols left better tips.
The place has been strangled by its success. Caveat emptor etc. John Lapsley is an Arrowtown writer.
