No Splash

I've inveigled my way into a David Hockney painting.

My own hotel, while charming in its own quaint way, is cheap and cheerful, half a mile from the crowded municipal beach, and despite me having paid a whopping single room supplement, I seem to have ended up in a broom cupboard.

It didn't take me long to find this place for sneaky sunbathing. A smile and a regal wave at the security guards on the gate has so far been enough to get me in. The aptly named Minos Palace is empty apart from a handful of Russian oligarchs with impossibly beautiful women in tow. The pool is cool - throughout the day staff distribute platters of fruit and chilled face towels. But my preferred pitch is a secluded spot in the sandy cove which the hotel has commandeered for itself. I'm reclaiming the beach for the common people. Or the common tourist.

If I get rumbled before it's time to go home, I'll know it was one of you who shopped me.