Mother’s Ruin

I rode the dolly to a bar we know in Turgutreis. I was warmly welcomed by Mehmet, the jolly owner. As usual he was very much the worse for wear, indulging his infamous tendency to drink the profits. After initial reticence his new waiter started to give me the serious glad eye. Tall, slim and handsome, in a previous incarnation I might well have been tempted. These days I am a fine and faithful married man. In any case, I know through bitter experience that encounters with Turkish men are invariably complicated and often require recompense for services rendered. My advanced inebriation was such that I couldn’t tell if this young man’s favour was genuine or if he was just another member of the gay for pay brigade.

Mother's Ruin

Discounting the waiter’s flirtation, I engaged Mehmet in drunken conversation. I was supping gin. He ordered one of the waiters to fetch the Bombay Sapphire from the store room and proceeded to lavish it upon me. My reputation as a drinker is legendary and Bombay Sapphire is my favourite tipple, but even I couldn’t handle the quantity of mother’s ruin he overpoured into my glass. I tipped much it on the floor when his back was turned. Sensing I had reached my limit, I paid my bill, made my excuses and staggered off to the taxi rank. The winsome waiter waved ruefully as he watched his bounty disappear into the night.

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