Ahoy, shipmates and shore-dwellers! Heath here, your perpetually bemused captain aboard the good ship Sawasdeekat – a St. Francis 48 catamaran whose name means "hello" in Thai, but whose last 3 letters have been oh so cleverly concocted to say “Kat” from a Catamaran (I know, Genious I might be…) Anyway, our adventures often feel more like a hearty "hold on tight!" Remember our last dispatch? The near-nocturnal nautical near-miss in Sivota’s inky embrace and the customs near-catastrophy? Well, consider that merely the appetizer. The main course? A heaping plate of sunshine, sisterly shenanigans, and a side order of Pookie-induced pandemonium back in Blighty. Strap in.

A Corfu Adventurous Threesome

Act I: Corfu Calm & The Pom-Pom Effect

We limped (figuratively, the boat was fine, my nerves less so) back to Corfu Town, dropping the hook just outside the ancient citadel – a stone’s throw from the airport. Perfect timing. Enter Pom, Pookie’s sister, arriving fresh-faced and fancy-free, ready to trade the world of waxing and wonder-creams for wind and waves.

Collecting her was a breeze. Honestly, I expected mild trepidation transferring from airport shuttle to bouncing dinghy. Pom? She hopped on and off like a seasoned deckhand auditioning for Cirque du Soleil. First hurdle cleared.

Later on, to celebrate her joining us, we marched into Corfu Town, a labyrinth of Venetian charm and sun-bleached stone, and promptly annihilated some truly epic Greek street food (not to mention LOTS of Sangria… Greek wine never was my thing). The name of the dish? Lost to the mists of time (and perhaps a stray splash of ouzo). Think succulent, charred meat on a skewer – shish? Souvla? Does it matter when it’s that good, eaten under a sky bluer than a Mykonos postcard? It was pure, unadulterated yum.

Hitting the Corfu Town

Emboldened by our successful landfall and remembering the way back to bay, the next day we pointed Sawasdeekat south again. Destination: Sivota. But this time, we were wiser. We found an anchorage fit for the gods: nestled like a contented cat in a calm canal between two lush, green islands. Opposite us? The beckoning crescent of Παραλία Διαπόρι (Paralia Diapori), a beach so pristine it looked vacuumed. And just around the geological corner? The legendary Blue Lagoon. Oh, that water. Imagine liquid sapphire poured over pure white sand, shallow enough to see your toes wiggling like happy sea creatures. It wasn't just swimming; it was baptism in pure Aegean bliss. Fun Fact: That incredible turquoise? It’s thanks to the Tyndall effect – sunlight scattering off microscopic limestone particles suspended in the crystal-clear water. Science never looked so good.

Days melted into golden syrup. We ate. We drank. We launched the drone, capturing Sawasdeekat in her element, a majestic white bird resting serenely between emerald islands – footage so idyllic it could sell catamarans single-handedly. Pookie and Pom became kayak queens, paddling into hidden coves. And then... the Deck Shower Revelation. Pookie and I are old hands at the al fresco rinse. Why spend an hour post-shower picking your stray hairs out of the microscopically small drain plug hole when you have the whole Med as your bathroom vista? Pom, bless her adventurous spirit, embraced it with the gusto of a born naturist. No shyness, just pure practicality (and maybe a hint of liberation). She showered under the open sky, possibly giving passing fishermen an unexpected eyeful, utterly unfazed. A duck to water? More like a mermaid rediscovering her element.

All too soon, it was time to sail back to Corfu Town for Pom’s flight home. The reality of smelling faintly of nail polish remover and client appointments beckoned. Before she left, minor drama: Yours truly needed a doctor. Corfu Town’s finest prescribed some cream. The local pharmacist, sensing our transient sailor vibe (or perhaps Pookie’s faintly familiar face?), insisted we must visit Pom D’Oro. Run by a Greek MasterChef champion, no less! We went. Fusion magic happened on plates. Delicious. But the champion chef sighed, "Restaurant life? Much harder than TV." A sobering, grease-splattered truth bomb.

Pom D'Oro Restaurant Corfu

Interlude: The Mandrake Marina & The Whistle Blows

We tucked Sawasdeekat safely into Mandrake Marina. Her hull needed a rest. We? We were catapulted back to the UK. Why? Because Pookie, our culinary comet, had been summoned for a mission: The Quaglino’s Takeover. Forget pop-up. This was a full-blown culinary coronation.

Act II: Pookiemania Erupts in Mayfair

Picture Quaglino’s. Not a restaurant. An institution. A glittering Art Deco cavern where chandeliers cost more than our tender, the waiters glide with the silent precision of ninjas in tuxedos, and the oysters likely discuss stock portfolios. And into this den of discreet opulence strode Pookie. Our Pookie. Ready to unleash MasterChef magic upon the unsuspecting elite.

Modest plans? Quaglino’s hoped for 150 discerning diners. By 7 PM, the queue resembled a particularly well-dressed anaconda, coiling past the gleaming bar, around the grand piano, and possibly into a parallel dimension where reservations are sacred texts. They got 300. The guest list read like a foodie United Nations:

• Dubliners plotting to rename their yacht "Pooklington."

• A Brussels superfan who confessed to jumping on the first flight out the moment bookings opened, muttering, "Seat. Must. Have. Seat."

• Three dedicated souls who could probably recite Pookie’s MasterChef finale verbatim, complete with oven timer sound effects.

• A gentleman earnestly claiming past-life sous-chef status (Security received a subtle nod).

Pookie's night @ Quaglino's London

The air crackled. "Pookalicious" cocktails flowed like liquid gold. Autographs were signed on napkins, menus, possibly a stray bow tie. Photos flashed. At one point, a wide-eyed waiter hissed, "Is she… the Queen?" Close enough, pal. Close enough.

The food? Reports described it as "Beyoncé on a plate" – flawless, unpredictable, capable of reducing grown adults to sketching fan art. And the crescendo? Her signature Spherified Pookalicious Cocktail. Imagine capturing pure joy in a delicate, bursting orb. It wasn't a drink; it was liquid architecture, a flavour bomb that made Monet’s waterlilies look like a doodle. It stopped the room. Briefly. Before the applause nearly brought down those priceless chandeliers.

Act III: The Pookie Roadshow Rolls On

Did she rest? Did she heck. Faster than you can say "pan-seared," Pookie was centre stage at the Solihull Food Fest. The crowds? Spilling into the streets. The company? Culinary royalty: Glynn Purnell (her MasterChef mentor, reunion hugs ensued!), the irrepressible Ainsley Harriott. Sporting a sunshine-yellow hat (a beacon in the culinary fray), Pookie conjured her "Waterfall Beef" – a dish so visually stunning, it probably had its own fan club before the first bite.

Lichfield Food Festival

Next stop? Lichfield. Answering a sisterly SOS for a friend’s food show. Fun Fact: While Lichfield might be famed for Dr. Johnson and its stunning cathedral, its food history whispers of hearty Staffordshire oatcakes and medieval market fare. Erasmus Darwin (Charles’s granddad) hosted legendary intellectual feasts here, proving Lichfield’s appetite for more than just theology! Pookie charmed fans young and old, proving her magic works just as well in a marquee as a Mayfair palace.

Pookie as a Masterchef Judge

The Cherry (or should we say, Michelin Star?) on Top: Amidst this whirlwind, the call came. The BBC. MasterChef. Not as a contestant this time. As a Judge. Cue Pookie transforming into a culinary Mary Poppins, whizzing down to London to dispense wisdom, wit, and perfectly calibrated critiques alongside Eddie and Claire. The prodigal chef returns, apron now a robe of judgment! We beamed. We might have shed a proud tear. Okay, I did.

Meanwhile, In The Engine Room (aka Heath’s Reality):

While Pookiemania swept the nation, I was attempting to single-handedly orchestrate the construction of a 12-bedroom extension. The clock wasn't ticking; it was screaming like a banshee with a stubbed toe. We squeezed in fleeting, precious moments with family and friends – vital soul-fuel amidst the concrete and chaos. But the Med was calling. Loudly.

Epilogue: Albania Beckons

And so, dear crew, we find ourselves hurtling back towards Corfu. Back to Sawasdeekat, patiently waiting at Mandrake Marina. The scent of Greek coffee and brine is calling. Our next destination? Albania. Land of the enigmatic Eagle, stunning, untouched coasts, and… well, we’ll find out, won’t we? There will be challenges. There will be moments where we’ll be batting away those pesky negative tennis balls with our trusty (slightly splintered) adventurer’s racket. There will be stunning sunsets, questionable dinghy landings, and undoubtedly, phenomenal food.

Because that’s the Sawasdeekat way. Sunshine, salt spray, the occasional naked deck shower (thanks, Pom!), and a wife who casually sets London ablaze before judging the next generation of culinary stars. Just another chapter in the logbook.

Until Albania sends its regards... Fair winds and following seas!

Heath (& Pookie, probably testing Albanian spices already)

P.S. The cream worked. Thanks for asking. Priorities!