We semi-addressed the great heating debate with the procurement of an ugly infrared monster heater on a tripod,  colour-matched to the drawing room décor. There is much discussion about the effectiveness and cost of running such a unit. I don’t care. My feet are warm for the first time in weeks. Besides, they were flying off the shelves. As they say, when in Rome…

It’s a lazy day of pottering and laundering in brilliant, blinding sunshine. I’m cautioned that exposing our damp pants to passing locals is considered very poor taste. I’ve no wish to unwittingly offend but nor do I desire to display dripping knickers about the place like an exhibit from Tate Modern. In any case, passing traffic is rare and effective interior drying is all but impossible in a stubbornly nippy, nipple hardening abode. Daintily scented linens with real feel appeal turn to a stale musk and contribute to the inevitable condensation crisis we all endure during the mould season. In a determined effort to show uncharacteristic cultural sensitivity and to avoid inflaming Tariq the Toothless Caretaker’s bubbling ardour, I stealthily hung out our genuine designer pants in a neat row sandwiched between a t-shirt and a pillow case. Sorted.

While the undies were happily flapping away in the wind, the main fusebox switch tripped and resolutely refused to be reset. Clearly, the underpowered circuit designed only to run a couple of light bulbs struggles to cope with all our decadent fancy electricals. It was a relief that after a few anxious attempts power was restored. Such is the leisurely life of a pansy pioneer in the Wild East.