I awoke and it occurred to me that nothing had changed. The world was still in the same abhorrent state of disrepair and, more importantly, the ceiling was still orbiting my head at the same hellish pace as when I plunged out of consciousness earlier this morning. Someone was shaking me awake. Perched precariously on my revolving ceiling was my co-author, Adamson, wringing me with merciless vigour and babbling incoherently.“Get out of here, man!” I cried. “You only have one neck to break!”But the reckless bastard ignored me. He proceeded to tip one side of my bed upwards, rudely ejecting me from my refuge. This had the effect of causing my hold on basic spatial practicalities, already much weakened, to collapse completely. I have no idea how long it took for me to muster the bravado to open my eyes and stand up straight, but judging from the increasing agitation of that wretched man, it could have been some time.As he bundled me towards our tiny car, I began to discern human phrases within the confused mass of his ramblings. Gradually, I was able to piece together his intentions. There were a number of notable sites scattered across the island, which were going to have to feature in our report, and he insisted upon dragging his photographer and me to visit them before the 9pm deadline.Before I could assemble my numerous objections to this absurd plan, he had somehow got me into the car and slammed the door. He entered the driver’s seat, and behind us in clambered the photographer – a bewilderingly cheerful American girl by the name of Young.As Adamson busied himself attempting to wring some life from the engine, I examined his ragged pupils. Their intensity suggested the presence of chemicals far more rarefied than ever occur naturally in the human body. Reassured, I leant down, extracted the plastic water bottle from the footwell and took a long draught. It did not contain water. I took another long draught. The contents appeared to be the same stuff as had first propelled the world into such dizzying motion last night, and I had been assured by a reliable Albanian that they were almost 99% ethanol.Though initially suspicious of such a bold claim, extensive experimentation had inclined me to believe him. I continued to sip from the bottle as Adamson finally revived the engine and hurled us down the perilous mountain track away from the house.I had concluded by this stage that calming the earth’s rotations was not the answer to my problems, indeed such a course of action would be dangerously selfish. Not only I, but all of humanity was bound to suffer some kind of catastrophic dislocation should the place actually stop spinning. No, I had determined to contribute to the survival of our spineless race by encouraging this movement, and the contents of that bottle were going to help me do it.After an indeterminate amount of time tearing along pitiful roads under a pitiless sun, we arrived at our first destination: the remnants of a temple devoted to Aphrodite, goddess of self-delusion, cruelty and lust.Why these attributes merited a place of worship, or an object of worship for that matter, continues to baffle me. Maybe this is the reason I shall never understand the improbable conjunction of bacteria we call humanity. Maybe not.Young was positively delighted however, and ran towards the dilapidated array of stones with the air of a child running towards a theme park. Seeing only the gigantic smiling mouse, the child runs forward, elated, blind to the hopelessly depressed human being behind that suffocating facade. Adamson followed, a weary but complicit parent to this elongated toddler and I, with greater caution, brought up the rear.My wariness was soon rewarded when we were assailed by an elderly local couple, clearly tasked with looking after this particular fragment of the island’s inglorious past.“Yasas!” the man cried. What kind of devilish warning was this? I grabbed the oblivious Adamson by his collar.“I don’t like this. What are they saying?”“Hello, I imagine.”“But how can you be sure?”

The two faces, weather-beaten and salt-toughened, were smiling, but it was a smile no more convincing than that of the giant mouse. Here were a pair pushed by desperate straits to the very limits of reasonability. In such circumstances, the average human is capable of anything, and these two were no different. Flight was our only recourse.

“Where is the girl?”

Adamson gestured vaguely towards a pillar, around which Young was animatedly leaping, snapping away delightedly.  Poor fool. She was fit and healthy, however, and at a sprint could be expected to make it back here in five seconds or so. The old couple were unlikely to be able to apprehend us more rapidly than that. We might just make it out unmolested.

“I suggest a subtle retreat as far as the gate, followed by unchecked speed back to the car. Do you agree?”

Fortunately, the same chemicals responsible for Adamson’s intensity that morning had also made him particularly persuadable. The mere tone of my voice was enough to convince him of the danger in which we  had found ourselves and his usually obstinate nature collapsed in the face of superior perception and a headful of mind-melting drugs.

We began backing away slowly, and saw to our vindication the steady decomposition of those welcoming smiles.

“I knew it!” I hissed as we backed, grimacing, towards the gate. “A minute longer and they’d have had us.”

“What about Young?” replied Adamson.

“Leave her to her fate, we can’t go risking our necks for a girl who can’t recognise a giant mouse when she sees one!”

“What?” Adamson spat, with unusual ferocity. Despite his malleability, he had evidently not yet grasped the essential problem of the place. But by that time we were almost at the gate, and the time for debating theoretical essentials was long passed.

“Run!” I yelled, and we turned on our heels and pelted towards the tiny car.