In order to spend more than ninety days in any six month period in an EU country we decide to apply for Greek residency.

There’s no ‘may I have the pleasure?’ with this dance. The policeman in charge of aliens, handsome in the way of shaven-headed hard men, barks, ‘Why are you here?’ as we enter his office.

‘To get a residency permit,’ we try to show smiles behind our masks.

‘No.’

‘But we’d like the right to stay here for longer, now we have retired. We have owned a house for twenty years.’

‘Why didn’t you apply before?’ His tone is fierce. ‘You were here in June and July.’

Our polite English explanations cut no water. He scoffs at our passport records of entry and exit over the years. ‘You never stay for long.’

My daughter pipes up with her reasons and receives a withering glance. Suddenly he types rapidly. ‘Write this down. You need …’ and he reels off a string of requirements that we must produce before returning when we are summoned.

‘Oh, thank you,’ we mumble.

‘And you’ll need a Greek mobile phone. I don’t waste money telephoning English mobiles.’

‘Of course,’ we begin to back away gratefully.

‘You will need to give me the number and keep the phone with you. I will send text for your appointment. Do not leave the country.’

We leave the police headquarters in a positive mood and relax over a coffee in the main shopping street while Sasha makes for the nearest mobile phone shop.

Fifteen minutes later she knocks again at Mr Spiro’s office door.

‘You again?’ he greets her.

‘I’ve brought you the number.’

‘Already?’ He jots it down. ‘Well. Your parents may qualify for residency.’ He raises his head. ‘You have no chance.’

‘But…’

‘Don’t look at me with those big beautiful blue eyes.’

A few weeks later, hoops jumped through, fingerprints taken, documents chased down and handed over, photograph submitted and rejected and resubmitted, the three of us receive our residency cards.

On our way home we take a jubilant selfie under the blue and white flag of Greece.