The phone Liam bought in Blighty was blocked by Virgin so off we strolled to a back street shop in search of solution. I was ushered into a tiny antechamber to negotiate the transaction with a seedy looking gangster type in cheap jeans surrounded by untidy piles of disassembled hand sets and spare parts. For a small consideration, the swarthy chap entered the magic sequence of numbers. I felt like I had just visited my drug dealer. The phone for a fiver now works like a dream.
We were suffering from an advanced dose of cabin fever. We braved the inclement weather to stroll down to the village and take tea in the municipal café along the Yalıkavak harbour front. It’s a nice spot if it’s not too breezy. An earnest young local man with intense eyes and passible English engaged us in conversation, curious as to why we were in town out of season. Clearly, an educated and reflective individual it didn’t take him too long to turn the chat to politics, particularly the differences between the British and Turkish brands. We have been warned against talking politics and tried to keep it light and frothy, but he persisted. I mentioned the positive result for the Government in the constitutional reform referendum last year. As a passive observer, I thought the proposed amendments to be reasonable, and so too did the European Union. He assured me that politics is a zealous and divisive business in Turkey, and the referendum exposed the deep fault lines that exist in society. He said that many people passionately believe that the constitutional changes are just part of a larger, more sinister plot by political Islam to undermine the cherished secular state. Politics is a dirty business in every country and we shall see if the sceptics are right.
According to AFP, the French news agency “A further 68 Britons and 139 others are on board HMS Cumberland heading to Malta. The navy frigate’s progress has been hampered by bad sailing conditions.” My disappointment with the cancelled cocktails has been mitigated by a rush of pride. It seems a shame that she was on a farewell tour prior to being scrapped.
Peering out of the damp windows provides a timely and salutary reminder of one of the reasons we left Britain. The sea and sky are united in an unbroken dirty greyness disguising the horizon and cloaking the Greek islands in the far distance. We are confined by the persistent drizzle. There are many things I miss about London but the weather isn’t one of them though I was surprised to stumble across Interesting European Weather Facts that suggests that my home town has one of the most benign climates of the major European cities. It must be true. I read it on internet. Whatever the facts I’m glad of our regular city fix that enables us to have the best of both. Despite our warm and forgiving hosts, London is a place where we can genuinely breathe free. I can’t see us becoming diehard Blighty bashers unlike so many of our compatriots.
Everyone has a tale to tell and tell it they do. Many of the stories are depressingly similar – running away from something or someone and seeking renewal. It’s hard to fathom why poor old Blighty is so often blamed for their plight. Do people really think a faraway land offers a sure fire panacea for the demons who lie within? Liam and I have chosen to embrace our new life, not as a rejection of what had gone before, but as validation of our future. We are under no illusion that we can simply deposit our unwanted pasts at left luggage.
We were invited by the Honorary British Consul to cocktails with the captain aboard HMS Cumberland while it was in port in Bodrum. I sponged down my sailor boy outfit and rehearsed the steps to the Village People’s ‘In the Navy’ while Liam spent all weekend running up a skimpy black thong on his Singer. He intended to amuse the plucky tars by his lip synching rendition of Cher’s ‘If I Could Turn Back Time’, legs astride a gun barrel. He reckoned they deserved a little light entertainment after an arduous tour of duty chasing savvy Somalian corsairs across the Indian Ocean. We hoped to see the cut of the Captain’s jib and a reccy around his engine room to survey the magnificent greased pistons. Liam had a mouthful of pins to hem the lacy loincloth when we received word that the rum punch was off. No frigging in the rigging on the frigate for us. I assume our brave boys are steaming at full speed towards Libya to help evacuate foreign nationals in the event that mad Gaddafi decides carry out his deadly threat to torch the place and murder his own citizens. What a party pooper.
Watch ‘In the Navy‘ by the Village People.
We foolishly mislaid our Turkish mobile phone a few weeks ago and replaced it with a little second hand number. It looked quite nice in the display cabinet but this turned out to be just an illusion. The bloody thing started to fall apart the minute we got it home, and after a few days it became impossible to see the screen after dark. Like the rest of the World, Turks have begun an enduring love affair with mobile telephony though it’s difficult to imagine how most people can afford it since even a modest phone costs the average weekly wage. There are three main phone operators in Turkey – Turkcell (by far the biggest), AVEA and good old British Vodafone. I thought it quite reasonable to expect a little healthy competition. Not a bit of it. As far as I can see the whole market works as a cartel. So, during his mercy dash to Blighty, Liam bought a new phone. It cost a fiver. Thank the Madonna for Virgin.
It turns out you can’t just buy a phone willy-nilly and swap the SIM card over. Oh, no. All phones must be registered with the State. Apparently it’s an anti-terrorist measure. It probably facilitates phone tapping which I read is surprisingly commonplace. Off we trotted to the main Turkcell shop in Bodrum to discharge our legal obligations. We were processed by a cheery young woman with forearms hairier than Liam’s. She sorted us out in no time with a registration form in triplicate with two official stamps on each copy and countless photocopies of Liam’s passport and residency permit. There are now enough copies of his official identity in circulation to supply the Israeli Secret Service for years.
Liam is back from Londra safe and sound but knackered after a six hour delay at Istanbul. Atatürk Airport is up there with the most tedious and expensive airports on the planet; rip off duty free and eight Euros for a cup of insipid burnt coffee. I warmed the house with a roaring fire framed by IKEA candles, decanted the red and cooked a hearty supper. When Liam crossed the threshold I held him for an age. He’d only been away for a few short days, yet I couldn’t help myself. I am a forty something, worldly wise old cynic behaving like a silly school boy with an adolescent crush.
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.
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.
I was diverted from my solitude by gale force winds. The magnificent bougainvillea that graces the front of the house, still bald from the last meteorological onslaught, lashed about like a cat o’ nine tails. The winter-weary palm finally surrendered to the elements and laden terracotta pots slow-danced across the terrace like cheap plastic fakes. Apparently, the wind gusted to 55 knots. I may be slightly familiar with knots vis-a-vis bondage but have no clue what this means maritime-wise. Since I was nearly blown off the patio trying to have a fag, I can claim with some confidence that 55 knots is very windy indeed.
It reminded me of the great storm of 1987, the worst since 1703, that hit southern England on the early morning of my birthday. It was the vicious tempest that killed 18 people, felled half the trees in the Home Counties and transformed Sevenoaks into Oneoak. I lived in Windsor at the time. I lay in my bed listening to the sound of Welsh slates sliding off my roof and smashing onto my neighbour’s BMW. Serves him right for parking outside my house.
I am bored rattling around our big house on my own. I know I’m an old scrubber but there’s only so much scrubbing even I can do. Anyway, I can’t get down on knees like I used to. Well, getting down is a doddle but getting back up requires the assistance of two strong lads. I am considering getting a little Turk in to dust down my knick-knacks and clean out my drawers.
Neighbourly Clement invited me to a spot of lunch to relieve me of my solitary confinement. He’s all angst and ringing of hands at the moment because his dream retirement bungalow in the hills is delayed by a plague of minor technical hitches (no windows or roof).
Perking the Pansies 