Waking up to a typically balmy island morning Mr Putin chats to his elderly neighbour. The houses are joined by a shared veranda divided in part by a barbecue where he cooks his daily catch; this man has a special knack with the tongs. Whereas I struggle to manipulate the metal scissor like implements, more often than not resulting in a dip in the coals, Mr Putin deftly flicks the sardines on to the uncooked side. This he does with a cigarette, (or glass of beer drawn from his own pumps), in the other hand. No apron is required for a professional.
His elderly neighbour wears shorts revealing a surgical stocking stretching from ankle to knee. This elderly Telly Savalas walks with an arm crutch and a pronounced limp. Emblazoned across his t-shirt is ‘The Impossible is Nothing’ oh the irony! Returning at 11 pm from dinner last night Telly was digging a hole in the garden – this morning he watered the empty hole!
Conversation over Mr Putin disappears into the two storey white house with an upstairs balcony on which he appears minutes later. He walks to the edge of the balcony and spends sometime looking at the ground below before going back inside.
Today Mr Putin wears vintage denim jeans with rear pockets that elongate his buttocks exquisitely. Snug over taut buttocks the legs are looser without being baggy. I am reminded of Robert Redford in the Horse Whisperer. The short sleeved blue chambray shirt reveals a strength in his arms which is about to be tested before my very eyes!
Returning to the balcony Mr Putin is dragging a full size white door which he leans against the metal fencing once again looking over the edge and back towards the house. What on earth is he planning to do I wonder? Pulling out a length of cord-like rope he proceeds to tie it to the gilt coloured handle on the door yanking it several times to make sure it is secure.
What happened next was pure poetry in motion; the tension had me on the edge of the plastic patio chair on which I sat. Slowly he lifted the door, the full sized door, over the balcony before gingerly lowering it to the ground. He manages to position the door so it is leaning against the wall of the house. Wow I think the power in those arms, the concentration on the sculpted cheek bones and such accuracy!
What else could a man of such fitness do? Does he run marathons through open seas perhaps? Swiftly closing my mouth I avert my eyes as he reappears downstairs. I am tempted to give him a round of applause but at this point we haven’t yet spoken so it would seem premature!
Opening the front gate Mr Putin carries to door down the steps before lifting it onto his head. It takes several attempts before he gets his balance and proceeds effortlessly down the path towards the harbour.