When I was a boy visiting my relatives in Greece, I remember being constantly struck by the faces of the male members of the clan, which seemed to be in a permanent state of identity crisis. As they leaned down to kiss me on both cheeks, I would be scratched by putative beards, fledgling whiskers and a variety of sandpaper textures that were brutal and unforgiving on young skin.

I didn't get it: didn't these people shave every day, as did my father and every other selfrespecting working man back home in England? The answer was no, of course. I learnt that shaving in Greece was a weekly or even fortnightly occurrence, and it was never, ever inflicted on oneself. Instead, there would be the visit to the local barber, cut-throat and perfumes at the ready, to restore that baby-faced freshness, for a special occasion perhaps, or just to lift the spirits.