Sitting in the room when I duly turned up with the rapidly declining piece of paper in hand, was the under-director of the directors.
"Aha!" he said. "The Computer person!" He didn't look at my piece of paper.

He stood up and paced around the room. "You see," he said, "it's tricky, but we need official word that you won't sell the computer to the Albanians, that you are who you say you are - I know, you have your passport, but how do I know it isn't forged, hm??? Well, it's true you don't look like a smuggler, but what do smugglers look like? Or terrorists? Or anyone else who might want to get hold of computer or sell it? No, we want proof. First: where is the receipt for this computer?"
I took out a scrumpled piece of paper from my pocket, and gave it to the man, who was clearly enjoying his performance. He waved at it, then accepted it, looked at it for a second, then appeared satisfied. "Now, we have this piece of paper here - it's a document that states a) you are who you say you are, b) that you are an honourable, well-intentioned man with no malice, a sort of character reference, he, he, he and c), and this is the crunch - that you are in fact teaching English in Kastoria for Svarna schools. You must take this to your director, and get her to sign the piece of paper. Then we will allow you to have your computer." He passed me a piece of paper which already had a rubber stamp on it with under-director of the directors or some such title under it, and a rather grand signature. There was a dotted line for Mrs. Svarna to sign on, and a dotted line for me to sign on, and a dotted line that appeared to have no connection with anything whatsoever.
"And before you take the document to your director, you must go to room 16,"
he added, almost as an afterthought.
I fled and scurried to room 16. In it was a blonde woman who spoke some English, as my Greek was beginning to crack under the strain. She could have explained it in Greek, but she gave me the whole rigmarole again, in very bad English. When she had explained to me that I had to get the director to sign, etc., she added, again almost as an afterthought. "And it will cost you 100,000 drachmas."
In those days that was two thirds of a month's wages.
"But, but, Maastricht, Maastricht!" I gasped.
"The Masstricht treaty has not yet come through. Look," she said, as if explaining something to a child, but she did at least revert to Greek, "if you had just brought, say, a video camera in, and were only going to stay for two weeks or something like that, then we could let you in for free. But because it's a computer and you are staying here for more than a month, we have to charge you."
" I see," I gasped. Then I remembered the Greek love of drama. "But I am poor... Broke... Tired, as I have journeyed far and wide. A pitiable dust lurks on my very being, the dust of wandering and having no money even for a wholesome meal. An English teacher with no money, no money at all. We have to survive on crusts of bread and water before the first month's wages. Give us a break."
She smiled. It was the first time I had seen anyone in this building smile. "Very well, then. Get your piece of paper signed, and then we can trust you to come back in three months time and pay us the money then. How about that? Three months is enough to earn what is required."
"I see, " I said. "Oh thank you for your magnaminity" I bleated. "Do I get to take the computer, then?"
"When we have that piece of paper signed by your director. And not a moment before."
She was now talking to a scallywag.
"What will you do with the computer while I get the paper signed?" I asked her.
"Don't worry, we will put it in a very safe place. And tomorrow you come back with that paper, and all will be well, don't worry."