We logged on to the VPN, plugged the laptop in to the widescreen and relaxed with tucker on trays for an unadulterated pleasure night of British TV. We’re making the most of it before the dull hand of the Turkish censor bans our innocent fun. Top of our bill was the class act that is Strictly Come Dancing live on Auntie. A gay boy needs his fix of spectacle, salsa and sequins on a cool autumn evening. For us, Russell Grant, the frockless fat drag queen, was the astrological star of the show. Mystic Meg never predicted that.
Liam and I were fascinated by Lulu’s fabulous facelift, so much better than the trout pout sported by Felicity Kendall last year (to who, by the way, I used to sell light bulbs to in Habitat circa 1979). You really do get what you pay for.
I awoke to the news that mad Gaddafi is dead. I would have preferred him to stand trial (a fair trial that is) but I understand why they put the old dog down. I went right off him when cocktails with the captain on board HMS Cumberland were called off at the last minute because the ship was diverted from Bodrum to Libya to evacuate foreign nationals. There was no rum punch or frigging in the rigging for us. It was enough to make me want to topple a dictator. As the Arab spring rolls into winter will Assad be next? I hope so. But, what of the medieval monarchs and mad mullahs in the rest of the Middle East? Their iron grip is likely to hold a while yet.
I wish all Libyans, Tunisians and Eqyptians genuine democracy, pluralism, secularism and respect for individual rights. Will I be holding my breath? Probably not.
Liam and I were sitting in Kahve Dünyası, a superior coffee shop in Bodrum. We were with magnificent Murat, a handsome Brit of Turkish Cypriot extraction. Murat is blessed with a cheeky smile, dreadfully naughty eyes and buns you could bounce a penny off. Murat’s not gay, but healthily gay friendly and a diverting companion. A waiter approached to take our orders.
‘Sütlü americano lütfen,’ I said in my best Turkish (I realise only two of these words are actually Turkish). The waiter stared at me quizzically. Murat intervened. The conversation, in Turkish, went as follows:
‘What did he say?’
‘He asked for an americano with milk.’
‘I know.’
‘So what’s the problem?’
‘He’s got a foreign accent.’
‘Yeah. He’s foreign.’
‘What does he want then?’
‘You know what he wants.’
‘An americano with milk?’
‘Bullseye.’
‘So why didn’t he say that?’
‘He did say that.’
‘Huh! Bloody tourists.’
I don’t know why I bother. I should just shout loudly in English.
The serious point to this tale is that the British are more forgiving of people who speak bad English. Maybe we’re more accustomed to the weird pronunciations from first generation immigrants. Globalish, the reduced vocabulary version of our mother tongue, is prevalent at international conferences, on the streets and in many social situations. Of course, just to confuse people, the British have developed a countless number of regional British accents to baffle people everywhere.
When you move to warmer climes, you expect to be bothered by bugs. There’s no Jack Frost to kill the critters off. Last night I was bothered by the fattest fly I have ever seen. Fat Freddie was the jumbo jet of flies and danced here and there but mostly danced around me. I’d always thought flies to be more of a nuisance than a menace until I looked up Wikipedia to discover that the humble house fly can carry over 100 pathogens. These include typhoid, cholera, salmonella, bacillary dysentery, tuberculosis, anthrax, ophthalmia, and parasitic worms. Well, fancy that. ‘Don’t mess with me, Freddie,’ I warned. ‘I’m fatter than you and I have WMDs.‘ Fat Freddie took no heed. Fearing terminal consumption and a bad case of the runs, I zapped the feckless fat fly with Raid. That was the end of Freddie.
Online forums are an essential part of life for both emigreys and those with holiday homes in a foreign land. At best they encourage a sense of community and provide invaluable guidance and advice. At worst they give a platform for nutters and ne’er do wells to vent their spleens. Sometimes the moderators have a tough job keeping the bile in check. You take the rough with the smooth, the classy with the crass. A thick skin and a sense of humour is a prerequisite. I recently come across a Turkish forum where the debate seems more measured and the discourse more civilised. It’s called Turkishlife Forums. Take a look and if you like it, why not join the club?
Yes, I did it again. Sorry for the latest ghost post (if you received it). I still haven’t managed to blow away all of the cobwebs following my over-indulgent birthday celebrations; I’m still wringing my liver out in the sink.
By way of an apology, why not enjoy a bit of Britney before she went a little mad.
Yesterday I published a post about Jo Parfitt’s mouth watering debut novel, Sunshine Soup. I asked Jo if she’d respond to a gentle inquisition about the project. This is what she had to say:
You are a highly successful author of 27 non-fictional books. What made you throw your knickers to the wind and write your first novel? Are you prone to bouts of madness?
Writing non-fiction is easy to me. Like falling off a log. I can write 1000 words in half an hour, easy. So, to me, only writing a novel would count and make me believe I was a ‘real’ writer. Something to do with suffering I guess. If it doesn’t hurt it’s not good enough. Madness indeed. I must have been mad to make myself do this, because my own standards are frighteningly high but also because this is easily the most exposing thing I have ever done – rather as if I had removed my knickers. I am scared of a chilly reception. Aren’t we all?
The world of shopping malls and housemaids is a fabulous backdrop to the book and the life of your main protagonist, Maya, will resonate with many expat women. How much of the book is based on your own experience?
Jo’s Labour of Love
Maya is not me though she loves to cook, has billions of brilliant ideas, a husband who changes into his shorts for dinner parties and two sons, as I do. I went to live in Dubai at 26. Maya goes at about 40. She is maybe the person I might have been had I waited to go abroad until later in life. But there it stops. All my characters are a culmination of many people I have met and some I would like to have met, along the way. Not one is a carbon copy of someone real. It is hard to create a character who is plausible when you base him or her on someone you know, because your own familiarity with the real person can make the carbon copy rather one dimensional. Characters aside, I have lived abroad 24 years now, in 4 countries and, as a journalist, I have specialised in expat issues, culture shock, loss of identity and so on. Sunshine Soup is a bit of a parable and has allowed my characters to demonstrate some of the things I have learned while on my own journey.
Food is an important element of my life with Liam (my new Mrs Beaton). In Maya’s case, cooking seems to keep her sane in the pressure cooker of expat life. Do you think it’s important for expat women to find an occupation?
I think it is important for anyone who does not have the marvellous bill-paying distraction of a ‘real job’ to find some fulfilling to do, whether for money or not. We all need to find out what turns us on and then find a way of incorporating that into our lives, often. For Maya, it’s cooking. For me, it’s the arts (and food).
Without giving away the plot, Maya’s life takes a twist when she re-connects with her ex; her temptation adds real tension. What advice would you have for couples who move abroad (presumably not to join a local swinger’s club)?
I have seen many expat couples go down the divorce road because, once you are abroad and there is a housemaid to cook, clean and babysit, it is easy for both partners to have active, and often separate, social lives. This can be a slippery slope. Temptation is everywhere. Free from the chattels of housework and soap operas affairs can fill the void nicely. My advice is to find joint hobbies and ensure you enjoy them weekly.
Many people say they have a novel in them. Is it that easy?
No. Most of my books take 9 months to create start to finish, like a baby. My novel took four years, three rewrites, cuts of 30%, sleepless nights, crises of confidence, four editors and that heart-sinking feeling of vulnerability when I set it free. But would I do it again? Definitely. It may have been tough, but it was also the most thrilling writing I have ever done. Creating Maya and her world filled me with utter, unadulterated joy. The day that I went to my own kitchen to try out Maya’s recipes (she has 20 in the book) and I found she was rather a dab hand in the kitchen – my character really could cook – was one of the happiest of my life.
What three words would you use to describe Sunshine Soup?
Thank you Jay from Bodrum Peninsula Travel Guide for taking the time to create this fun tag cloud to celebrate Perking the Pansies’ first birthday. It includes a not so subtle subliminal message that I support completely!
Jo Parfitt runs Summertime Publishing, the company that is publishing Perking the Pansies. I’m in safe hands. Jo is an accomplished and successful author, mentor, journalist and publisher with 27 books and hundreds of articles under her belt. Jo is nervous, but why? Well, she has just released her debut novel, Sunshine Soup, Nourishing the Global Soul. Anyone who’s poured their heart and soul into a book will empathise with Jo. It doesn’t matter if you’re a Booker prize contender or the writer of a production line penny romance, your labour of love will have you biting your nails until they bleed. I know. Mine are already bruised and bloodied.
Sunshine Soup
Meet Maya, wife, mother of two and owner of a successful deli. Sunshine Soup whisks her away from her friends and a job she adores, to an uncertain life as an expat wife in Dubai. Next, transplant Maya into a fabulous new house, throw in an obsequious maid, send the teenage boys to school and the husband to work, add a potent mix of expat women and stir. What happens next is a colourful and poignant story of a woman who gradually grows into her strange new life but faces some difficult choices and uncomfortable questions along the way. Maya’s friendship with Barb, a colourful, experienced and seemingly confident expat wife, is a fascinating development. Things are not quite what they seem.
It’s impossible not to be drawn in to Sunshine Soup. The characters are strikingly drawn and developed, the plot is compelling and the exotic sights and sounds of Dubai form an evocative backdrop to a hugely enjoyable story of loss, intrigue and redemption.
“Maya picked up her coffee, slid the French doors aside, and stepped out. She would drink it slowly, savouring every mouthful. She rested her arms on the low balcony wall and looked out. Green parrots flitted between the palms and she heard their rough squawks as they dipped and rose. Inspired, her shoulders followed their lead. She raised each in turn coquettishly up towards her ears. Samir, the gardener, hunkered beside a squat palm, slicing away the lower fronds, now dry and pale, to reveal more of the emerging trunk. The blue water in the pool was smooth and glassy as the shadows shrank and the sun lifted towards what would undoubtedly be another beautiful day.”
More than anything, Maya’s story is believable. It is this reality that ultimately makes the novel an important addition to any bookshelf. And yes, there is an actual recipe for Sunshine Soup at the end of the book, along with 19 others – a very nice touch and some delicious recipes.
After an long, exhausting day at the beach we returned home to a bit of a do. Our shared courtyard was ablaze with candles and Bubbly Beril was busily dressing her patio table. Moments later, the flamboyant Sofiya floated through the garden accompanied by a younger woman slapped up like Coco the Clown on a bad hair day. Beril turned to Liam and explained in broken English that she was throwing an impromptu al fresco dinner party and we would be joining them. In five minutes. The menu was a generous selection of calamari and un-filleted fish. This was Liam’s worst nightmare – he simply can’t do fish bones and tentacles are an absolute no no. I watched my husband attempt to keep his gag reflex in check, but he struggled. Eventually, he resorted to stashing cuts of rubbery squid in the pockets of his bermuda shorts. Oh the shame.
The evening was an eclectic mix of insults and complements, with Sofiya acting as the unofficial translator. Her companion was half cut from the start. She sat po-faced and aloof, only opening her mouth to demand more rakı. My attempts to engage her in a friendly tête-à-tête went largely unrequited. When she did speak it was to brag about her English – a result of a ten year stint in Texas (or Teksars, as she called it). Her pidgin dialect seemed little better than my Turkish, but I let it go. The miserable Coco became more and more inebriated. As her tongue loosened, the reason for her truculence became crystal clear – I was the problem. She unleashed an unprovoked broadside in my direction about foreign residents not speaking Turkish. Caught on the back foot, I attempted to placate her with a humble apology and a promise to do better. Dissatisfied, she continued to snipe. After an hour I could take no more and asked Sofiya to intervene – she did so with grace and tact, as I would expect from an ex RADA girl. Sofiya’s friend delivered a theatrical but fake apology topped only by my own fake acceptance of it. She withdrew to the opposite end of the table to sulk and sup.
I do accept that my lack of ear for languages will hinder a meaningful engagement within my host community. However, to be dressed down by an old sop who, after spending 10 years in the USA, could hardly string a few simple words together in English was a bit rich.
We logged on to the VPN, plugged the laptop in to the widescreen and relaxed with tucker on trays for an unadulterated pleasure night of British TV. We’re making the most of it before the dull hand of the Turkish censor bans our innocent fun. Top of our bill was the class act that is Strictly Come Dancing live on Auntie. A gay boy needs his fix of spectacle, salsa and sequins on a cool autumn evening. For us, Russell Grant, the frockless fat drag queen, was the astrological star of the show. Mystic Meg never predicted that.
Just Shout Loudly in English
Perking the Pansies 