Perking the Pansies, Jack and Liam move to Turkey

Chapter 7 - Clement's Closet

The pitiless Turkish winter was upon us and we were woefully unprepared. We were mugged by a posse of violent tempests rolling across the horizon, a savage spectacle of light and sound that crashed  ashore,  trapping  us  inside.  Every day, one perfect storm after another caged the house with forked lightning, and raindrops cluster-bombed the windows. Every day, Liam screamed like a girl and then denied he had. The site took a pounding. The magnificent bougainvillea gracing the front of the house was stripped bald and lashed about like a cat o' nine tails, a wind-weary palm tree finally surrendered to the elements, and terracotta pots smooched across the terrace like cheap plastic fakes. Tariq struggled to keep up with the satanic demolition. The sea and sky were united in an unbroken dirty greyness, disguising the horizon and cloaking the Greek islands in the far distance. It was the wettest winter Asia Minor had experienced since the Great Flood.

Things inside the house weren't much better. As the days passed, we quickly realised that all Turkish houses leak, have no insulation and precious little heating. It was as if the entire nation had decided that winters didn't really exist. We were learning the cold, hard way. Our light and airy double-heighted living room became a damp and draughty Welsh chapel on the Brecon Beacons. Fearing frostbite, we reclined in double socks, mummified ourselves in high-tog duvets and vied for possession of the hot water bottle. Memories of childhood came flooding back: pre-central heating days with a bed too cold to get into at night and too warm to leave in the morning. We sprinted to the loo for morning pees, donned layers throughout the day and resorted to copulating under cover. Comfort came in the form of alcohol, sex and endless games of backgammon. One evening, we managed to combine all three.

Chrissy rang every morning, presumably to check that we hadn't upped sticks and paddled back to London on a life raft. She ended every call with an unconvincing assurance that the peninsula was experiencing its mildest winter for years. "Not seen the like" she would lie, or "lucky not to be in Britain, they've had snow." Right. On Ben Nevis maybe. The house was colder than a penguin's arse and she knew it.

The frequency, volume and velocity of the rain meant that walking into town was a high risk activity. Most of the local roads turned into shallow canals and our flimsy shoes began to rot. Liam decided to search online for home-delivered wellies. It was a fruitless exercise in more ways than one. Mail deliveries were a hit and miss affair, entirely dependent on the whim of a part-time postman. This was a man so remarkably inept that he left a box of live chicks at our door, even though it was addressed to a farm just outside Muğla. "He's always drunk," Clement helpfully explained.

Liam detested the cold. He decided to blame everything on our huge supply of Turkish guide books, most of which had promised him a wonderfully temperate Aegean winter. On the day the chicks were delivered ("I wanted wellies") he constructed a pyre outside our front door, doused it in barbecue fluid and threw a match at it. The ceremonial burning of the guide books raised the attention of Tariq, who observed from afar, too scared to interrupt what he thought to be a sacred Christian rite. Tariq's shapeless beige shorts and rumpled tee- shirt were no more. His new winter apparel, ankle-length, black baggy pantaloons and a bright Christmas jumper, was stylishly set off by a transparent cagoule and a bobble hat.

One particularly damp morning, Clement paid a rare visit, clasping a large parcel under his arm like an over-sized clutch bag. Mr Mistoffelees slinked in close behind, purring darkly and leaving a trail of muddy paw prints through the house.

"Hello, chaps. Awful weather."

Liam was sweeping rain water out of the lounge. "Can't say I've noticed."

"Hi Clem."

"My name is Clement, Jack."

"Sorry, Clem."