always touch and go, especially with his recently reduced cleaning crew. Many a Friday found Jock putting in a call to Stavros, the coach driver, requesting he take the scenic route. Stavros would happily oblige by taking the newly arrived on an unscheduled tour of the backstreets of Lefkas. If things were really desperate he had another trick up in his sleeve. Every hour, on the hour, the floating bridge that carried vehicular traffic over the canal, and which was the only route onto Lefkas island, turned 180 degrees and allowed the yacht traffic to pass north or south. Sometimes the bridge opened a little early, and sometimes a little late, depending entirely on the operator, Vasili. Fortuitously, Vasili was Stavros' cousin. So, Jock would call Stavros, and Stavros would call Vasili, and the bridge into Lefkas was raised moments before the coach was due and left open for longer than was usual.
"I think today is definitely going to be a let's call Stavros day," Jock said to himself, as he struggled to his feet. "I'm sure this lounger gets lower to the ground every time I sit on it."
The company had introduced an optional cleaning charge that season as one of its revenue increasing ideas. In theory it was a good plan, but in practice the holidaymakers who opted for the extra felt they had bought a free pass to be as messy as possible. Today seven of the twenty boats looked like there had been nonstop raves on board.
"Right, might as well get on with things."
He called Stavros to arrange a super delayed arrival, and then asked his cleaning staff to make a start.
"I'll join you as soon as I've finished my call to HQ," he said. "I'll ask Tash and Colin if they can lend a hand getting the boats shipshape and Nidri fashion so to speak," he smiled at his little joke.
Jock spotted Tash and Colin, two flotilla team leaders in their late 20's. Tash was short, stocky, brown haired, brown eyed and from New Zealand. Colin was tall, blond haired, blue eyed and from Wales. Some of his female clients thought he was the best-looking man to have come out of Wales since Tom Jones. Colin certainly did. However, they made a good team and were popular with the holidaymakers. Both had an easygoing but practical nature and managed to get through the ups and downs that inevitably occurred during a week with their excited charges. This was their third season with Sailaway, and things had gone well again. Jock hoped they would sign up once more for the following season although he knew that people often retired early in this game.
"Guys, I know you've only just landed but is there any chance you could muck in with Maria and Maria getting the boats ready for later on? I know it's a big ask. I wouldn't ask if I wasn't desperate.
I'm going to help too, once I've finished my Skype call to Captain Kirk and Scotty," Jock added.
Elvis was a massive fan of both Star Trek and Star Wars. Consequently, the fleet was named after characters from one or the other. To Elvis this was something that reflected the quirky nature of the company and showed its "fun" side. His employees didn't always agree.
"I'll make it up to you, promise," said Jock as he watched Tash and Colin going off to help the two Marias.
Preparing the boats was not Jock's biggest problem today, hence the call with HQ.
"So, you're pissing off and leaving me right in the proverbial are you?" Jock had asked Zack and Jaime when they told him they were resigning.
"Bottom line Jock is we're in love and feel that our relationship can only truly blossom away from the stresses and strains of working," Jaime explained.
"Work is so overrated man," chipped in Zack.
"Bloody marvellous," well I hope you two truly flower together," Jock added with a flourish he was rather proud of.
At one level, Jock sympathised. Being responsible for the safety and enjoyment of up to forty people, visiting six different locations in a week, was something that took a great deal of patience and tact. But leaving that to one side, Zack and Jaime's undying love had left Jock right in the mire. His favoured solution was to call his competitors at Funsail or Keelsun and see if they could accommodate the thirty-four imminent guests expecting their cruise around paradise.
"There's more chance of Scotland winning the world cup than that lot back in Southampton giving up the green stuff, Jock boy," he told himself, "I thought it was the Scots who were supposed to be tight."
Jock sat down at his desk, turned to his computer, and switched it on. It fizzed into life and the screen saver appeared. He clicked on the Skype icon and then on the HQ button. The programme came to life and in a few moments it was "ringing." Then there was a beep and in unnervingly extreme close up Jock could see the smiling faces of Elvis, Naomi, and Bernard.
"Hi guys, how's things?" began Jock.
"We are fine at this end, but we are sorry to hear of the little challenge at your end," replied Elvis cheerfully.
"Little? It doesn't seem that little from this end, Elvis. I think the sensible solution would be to outsource Star Trek this week."
Elvis's face dropped like a stone.
"Are you joking?" he said, "Our clients would never stand for that."
"Think of the lost revenue," cried Bernard.
"No, no, no, we've got the solution, and we all think it's a real winner," continued Elvis.
Chapter Three
The idea had come to Elvis at breakfast whilst he chewed his toast and marmalade staring at the rain splattering on the window. In the background, the presenter on Radio 4's Today programme was as usual battering some poor interviewee over the head.
"Do we have to hear all this grim news?" Elvis asked rhetorically.
Inflation was up. The recession unceasing. War continued in various hotspots in the world affecting the price of oil. The aftereffects of Brexit reported as catastrophic. Elvis sat, half listening to the radio, half reading his morning newspaper, also full of bad news.
"At least you didn't die," said Naomi. "Last night I mean, you know from your supposed heart attack. What did the nice lady on the telephone tell you again?"
Fortunately, last night's "heart attack" had turned out to be merely a bad case of indigestion. The diagnosis had been made by the businesslike operator manning the NHS health line with the bedside manner of a Russian shot putter. She had quickly ruled out a coronary, before asking about the patient's diet in the preceding hours.
"So, let me get this straight," she barked at Elvis, "today you've had a fry up for breakfast, steak pie, a double portion of chips plus a Spotted Dick and three pints of beer for lunch. This evening you've had an Indian takeaway with a bottle of red wine."
"Don't forget to tell her about the mid-morning donut and the afternoon biscuits," called Naomi.
"I heard that," the woman continued. "With respect sir, my diagnosis is that you are a glutton. Take a couple of Rennies tonight. In the morning you will feel better and just might want to examine your diet and lifestyle."
"It's a sign from upstairs," Elvis told Naomi, "which I ignore at my peril."
As Elvis waited for the Rennies to kick in he pondered what he had been told. When he woke in the morning, pain free, he thought about it some more.
"I've been given a wakeup call to change my life, and that's exactly what I intend to do," he told Naomi
