As a certain glittery debauched malcontent would have crooned
"Did you miss me? Yeah! When I was away, did you hang my picture on your wall?"
This tessellated cupola and the Tyrrhenian Sea were the view from my bed and balcony last week; believe it or not I found it quite oppressive to look out onto the tiered village, my eyes went seaward every morning. My husband thinks I'm a Selkie, (seal woman) in Scottish mythology - a man can steal her away from the ocean if he takes her skin and hides it. Traditionally they make excellent wives but spend an inordinate amount of time staring out to sea and if they ever find their scaled skin, they will disappear into the white crash of the next wave.
Forget the Old Man of the Sea, in this part of the world the females are more deadlier than the males. The Sirens, you'll remember them from Homer, lived on the islands which Positano over looks and they bequeathed their name to one of the most amazing hotels where I've ever had the fortune to lay my head. I honestly didn't think that Le Sirenuse would live up to its reputation but it surpassed it. Among the best parts for me were the bed pillows (I'm worse than the princess and the pea) and the utter joy I experienced when finally realising that the mat in the lift reflected the day of the week - that's dedication.
This was our room, staying here was as if a charming affluent friend with wealth and taste had given us the keys to their summer home.
This was the 15th century summer home of the Marquis de Sersale and the family still own it today. The 90-year-old patriarch still picks out every single antique for every room.
I really hope you packed an appetite - here's breakfast.
And the view from the breakfast table is almost good enough to eat.
Mick and Keith wrote 'Midnight Rambler' here, what a hard hard life it was on the road.
The Sirenuse's secret views to Positano.
The bar, a quiet riot of Majolica tiles and mandarin orange upholstery, this was my favourite room - funny that.
Le Sirenuse, Positano
This cut out swimsuit looks like Borat's thong in pics - thought I'd spare you that.
The first Aperol Spritz of the season, snip snip: I declare the season when Mad Dog and Englishman get drunk in the midday sun officially open.
Look at what I'm reading, Greene on Capri, I am so predictable.
The restaurant - illuminated by the glow of 400 candles every evening.
I do love a good vegetable, it's the only shopping I do when on holiday. I bought that wriggly pepper on the left in case you were wondering, he had too much personality to be left behind.
Even the wrapping paper's frisky here.
(my comments might be sporadic, my internet is on the blink for a week)