Now we’ve moved to the big city, we had to go to the bank to change our branch. A simple enough procedure, I just had to write (yes write) a short letter requesting the change. Now, teacher Clive’s hand is lucid and tutorial. You can almost imagine three neatly ruled lines. Maurice’s hand is precise, crisp and artisan as befits his elevated status as an engineer. Philip’s script is stately, born of a more genteel age and fashioned down the years to a pleasing flourish. I can imagine him as a medieval monk devoting his life to illuminating the Gospels (and buggering the rector in the rectory). The common denominator here is that all of these marvellous hands are easy on the eye and perfectly legible. My small missive, on the other hand, was not. Furthermore, even after just three simple lines, my hand ached. A dozen or more years tapping on a keyboard has rendered my handwriting laboured and indecipherable; pretty to look but as Liam said, might as well be in Gujarati. So there it is. I have been permanently disabled by new technology.
The Day Perking the Pansies Went Viral
After I posted So You Think You Can Write a Pop Song? last night I checked my pansy map and thought there was a nuclear attack on North America and Western Europe – very Cold War. Pansies were bursting out all over the place. It shows that a title that catches the mood can go a long way. I hope all the spotty teenagers across the western world weren’t too disappointed. I suspect they won’t return!
See the video on my Facebook Wall.
So You Think You Can Write a Pop Song?
Listen to this and then read the story.
Liam’s been setting some lyrics to music. The words in question were penned by our nephew and my namesake, Jack. The prose is very deep, very torch song – all lost love, bitterness, angst and misery. It’s entitled the Promise. It escapes me what a 14 year old adolescent could possibly know about mislaid love. I put it down to the comprehensive system. Classically trained Liam can’t do hooks and struggled with the composition. He’s developed a deeper appreciation of the well-crafted three minute pop song. What you heard was the result. Not a pop song perhaps, but beautiful nonetheless.
Did the Earth Move for You, Darling?
Friends called from Yalıkavak and Gümüslük to let us know that the earth had moved beneath their feet. Fridges rattled, beds wobbled and light fittings swayed. We felt nothing here in metropolitan Bodrum. However, as we foolishly live on top of the Anatolian Tectonic Plate surrounded by active fault lines, it is inevitably we will experience an earthquake sooner or later. According to the Kandilli Observatory and Earthquake Research Institute at Bogazici University there were over 40 tremors of various magnitudes across Turkey over the last 24 hours. They don’t tell you that in the brochures.
Drums and Drugs
We now have neighbours. Our house is one of two on a single plot with a shared gated entrance and garden. We’d rather hoped the other house would stay vacant. It was not to be. We dreaded being saddled with a couple of old reactionaries; all head scarves, clashing florals and disapproving looks. We’re mightily relieved that Vadim and Beril are delightful arty types from Ankara. Vadim plays the bongos (or whatever the Turkish equivalent is) with talented gusto and Beril looks like she dropped too much acid in the Sixties. We engage in lots of pointing and demented waving of hands. They hardly speak a word of English and, of course, our grasp of Turkish remains lamentably poor. We’ve agreed to have a dictionary do over a bottle or three to exchange random words just for the hell of it. The ruder the better, I hope.
Ask Angela
I’ve been working on a website for our friend Angela. A vetpat of distinction, Angela is like a delicious transatlantic cocktail – a Fulham girl with a Yankee twist. She provides a one stop shop for all of your needs in the Bodrum area. We have first-hand experience of Angela’s great service – fast, efficient, friendly and cost effective. Take a look at Ask Angela and if you need any help, give her a call.
PS I don’t get a penny!
Water, Water Everywhere and Not a Drop to Drink
We popped out into town for an americano in Kahve Dünyası, a top notch place to sip coffee and people watch. It’s located at the end of the small arcade of up-market shops along the promenade close to Bodrum marina. The coffee arrives with a chocolate tea spoon – for eating not for stirring. Although it’s a chain, Kahve Dünyası provides a superior brew to the Starbucks close by.
We sauntered back along the promenade replenished by the caffeine and the warming spring sunshine. Our upbeat mood plummeted when we walked into our house. The newly refitted kitchen had been transformed into a shallow paddling pool. Fortunately, the room is set slightly below the rest of the house and a step dammed the flood. The qualified water technician recommended by our landlady had poorly fitted a dodgy T junction which had cracked. We spent the evening mopping up the deluge. The next day we hurried down to Koçtaş to buy a replacement fitting and a wrench. Hey presto, now I’m a qualified water technician.
Silent but Deadly
The drains in our new lodgings are a bit of problem. We took a well-deserved break from home making to watch back to back episodes of Downton Abbey. Midway through a deliciously haughty Maggie Smith monologue we turned to each other thinking the other had broken wind, the silent but deadly variety. Obviously, something very unpleasant had drifted across the room. I entered the bathroom to investigate and nearly fainted at the stench. Just as well Liam was on hand with the brandy to revive me. Mercifully, a few gallons of water liberally dosed with bleach soon cured the offending aroma.
Regrettably, rancid drains are the price we pay for living in paradise. During the hot, dry summers there’s just not enough pressure to push the shite through the pipe and back waft is all too common. That it has happened so early in the year is a tad worrying.
Yankee Pranks
A Pansy flasher in Washington DC brought back happy memories of journeys across the pond. Over dinner I led Liam on a jolly romp down memory lane. He kindly indulged my remembrance. I’ve been to the States four times – to New York, Boston, LA and my first visit was to the District of Columbia at the tender age of 20. I had dallied with a travelling Yank who worked for the Federal Government and was attending a conference in London. He invited me to stay so I did. I had tired of my dull, dead end job as chief cashier and pound counter for Habitat in Chelsea and had in mind to do as millions of others had done before me and seek my fortune in the land of opportunity. I saved my pennies, quit my job, booked a one way ticket on Freddy Laker’s Skytrain to New York and off I went. I flew out of the Big Apple and down to DC.
My Yank got a shock when I called. It seemed his invitation hadn’t been entirely genuine but he was good enough to let me stay for a few weeks in return for occasional sexual favours. Springtime in Washington is very agreeable and a riot of cherry blossom. The federal heart of the city is laid out in imperial style and built in monumental neo-classical majesty as befits the capital of the most powerful nation in history. The grand design is best appreciated from the top of the Monument, the world’s tallest true obelisk. Rameses the Great must have turned in his tomb. I did the obligatory tour of the White House and the Capitol and strolled along the Mall popping in and out of the various museums along the way. It struck me how everything was described in the definite article – The White House, The Monument, The Capitol as if no others exist. It’s a sign of a confident young nation with a touch of teenage arrogance.
Gay life in Washington was a world away from recession-ravaged buttoned up Britain with its grubby backstreet gay bars. It’s taken London 30 years to catch up. I loved it and it loved me. I was young and handsome with cheekbones that could slice cheese. My hosts lapped me up and I let them. I wowed the randy scamps in Rascals, a popular watering hole and pick up joint for federal employees near Dupont Circle. They just loved my accent, along with my uncut assets.
Alas, I sensed I was overstaying my welcome and my reluctant landlord feared I would claim squatters rights. My low-key patriotism also annoyed him. He rather expected me to be enamoured with all things American. I really liked what I saw but I had learned patriotism from my soldier father’s knee and have never been able to shake it off. After a few weeks living the American dream I pined for the old country and flew home on BA.
To this day I remain quietly patriotic, though not nationalistic. To be proud of where you are from is fine but to think you’re a cut above is not. This is a message some emigreys hereabouts would do well to hear. I wonder though, if I had settled Stateside, what would have become of me?
Turkey’s Got Talent
Thank you to one and all for the good luck messages from my loyal pansyfans. Liam and I are a little pre-occupied with nest building and kitchen reconstruction. Put two gay men in a room and witness the heated debate about where to place the Habitat vase. In the meantime sit back and enjoy a joyous discovery brought to you by You Tube and Yankee Istanbul blog Death by Dolmuş
Perking the Pansies 