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| Kipiadis Beach, Paxos, Greece |
Holidaying on a tiny Greek island with the threat of nuclear warfare approximately three thousand kilometres to the east, June 2025—sunbathing beside the turquoise Ionian Sea for the first time in my sixty one years and minutes after my blue and white umbrella cartwheels away and shaves the legs of the couple beside us a high-pitched supersonic engine thrum interrupts my sound space and next minute the azure water is ruffled by a fucking low flying fighter fuckin jet flyover—a Tom Cruise and Maverick move over reclined bikinis and bleached pebbles and hired motor craft and my daughter and me now sitting upright too far from our peace keeping country—an errant B2 jet fighter heading home? post Israel and Iran playing cowboys and Indians with quick draw missiles and nuclear arrows and Clusters last orange sheriff’s pop tweets earlier boasting spectacular military precision how his might broke up the fight declaring it a twelve day war and peace on earth—not a word about the ghost spirits made from bombs and radiation leaks just gold stars for the warty war lords flexing—I roll over and go back to my novel Romantic Comedy play acting the nothing to worry about parent no point freaking out ruining the chill vibe where we gonna run to anyway on our Greek island holiday in June.
Humans can normalise anything.
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