If you’re gonna do it, do it right…
Do it with me.
Me, Kaye, Jackie and Donna were going full pelt on the dance floor, having the time of our lives.
The DJ owned about 10 records, but we didn’t care, especially when Wham!’s I’m Your Man came on.
Even now, I can’t hear George Michael’s velvet tones or Peter Gabriel’s Sledgehammer without being swept back to a frenetic summer in Kassiopi, Corfu. We were 18, fresh out of our A levels, and confident life was just beginning.
We’d booked a last‑minute holiday and spent two sun‑kissed weeks laughing, chatting up men, drinking too many Ouzos and, whenever we had the chance, topping up our tans. Souvenir shopping never got a look‑in.
Some recollections of this heady fortnight still make me laugh out loud. Others remind me just how fearless, or naïve, we were.
We arrived late in the afternoon and decided to grab some sleep before heading to the beach.
When we woke, we glanced at the clock, saw it was 10 o’clock, pulled on our swimming costumes, slathered ourselves in suntan oil and set off.
By the time we reached the village square, we couldn’t understand why it looked so gloomy. Had the weather really turned that quickly?
I asked someone the time.
It was 10 o’clock at night.
The chaos didn’t stop there.
One afternoon Kaye nodded off in our apartment. When she opened her eyes, an elderly Greek man was sitting on the edge of her bed, gently holding her hand and stroking her hair with a faint smile.
Looking back now, it sends a shiver down my spine. At 18, we watched him wobble away on his bicycle and laughed, like something out of Last of the Summer Wine transported to a Greek island.
Every night we headed to the local disco, where I happily chatted and danced with people I’d only just met.
One of them was Adam from Swansea. We kept in touch for years afterwards.
Then there was the Greek theme night.
After one too many drinks, I burst into tears when a couple announced their engagement.
“That’s so romantic,” I sobbed over and over before deciding the occasion deserved a celebration. I leapt up, joined the dancing and started smashing plates over my head.
I was oblivious to the horrified looks from the families in our party and ignored the cries of “Shuddup and sit down, you silly cow.”
Eventually, the holiday rep marched me outside and force‑fed me strong black Greek coffee.
By the time the coach stopped on the way home so I could throw up, I’d sobered up enough to decide I probably didn’t need to after all.
That same evening Kaye found herself attracting attention once again when another older Greek man took a shine to her.
Trying to be protective, I bluntly told him to get lost.
Unfortunately, he was our coach driver.
Corfu gave us sunburn, cheap cocktails, embarrassing stories and uncontrollable laughter. I’ve not drunk Ouzo since.
Whenever Wham! starts playing or I catch a whiff of coconut suntan oil, I’m back in Kassiopi with those three girls, dancing badly, laughing until it hurt and knowing our best days were still ahead.
In many ways, of course they were.
Some summers fade.
This one never has.
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