Turkey Street, Jack and Liam move to Bodrum

Chapter Four - In the Bleak Midwinter

As Christmas approached, night time temperatures plummeted to zero and we exiled ourselves to a corner of the sofa in front of an infrared heater. Our faces tanned while our backsides froze. Liam extracted his Dennis the Menace jimjams from the bottom of the wardrobe, unrolled the woolly socks, recommissioned the hot water bottle and upped the tog on the duvet. In bed, we weaved together, drawn to each other's body heat, our limbs knotted like a plaited loaf at the bottom of a tepid oven. Daytime activities were stretched to fill the time and chilly evenings kept us under wraps as we exhausted our extensive DVD library with regular showings of classics from good times past: Priscilla Queen of the Desert, Beautiful Thing, Love Actually, The Holiday, Calendar Girls, Postcards from the Edge, Golden Girls (Series 1-4), Gimme, Gimme, Gimme (Series 1-3) and a host of other manly favourites.

The Siberian cold front continued unabated and a viral dark fungus spread faster than the Black Death in the dank corners of our stone house. Cutting edge building technology – air bricks and cavity walls – had yet to catch on in Turkey, and Liam advised me to stop breathing and so prevent the evil spores from damaging my ageing lungs. His attempts at hitting back with a Domestos-filled water cannon met with limited success, and in the end we adopted the Turkish approach: utter resignation. We would let the place rot over winter and make good when we eventually came out of mothballs. Turkey being Turkey, sun and storms played good cop, bad cop and as the meteorological drama continued, it wreaked havoc on our power supply. Liam suspected water damage and when he threw open the door of the fuse box, a flimsy container inexplicably set into an outside wall, his worst fears were realised: lines of rainwater were dribbling down the live wires. Vadim rode to the rescue and attached Beril's Babyliss to an extension lead but after an hour blowing hot air at the saturated wires, he retreated to his bongos a defeated man.

We summoned the Royal Marines in the form of our indomitable landlady. Hanife the Resourceful swung into action and dispatched her half pint distant cousin, the youngest and tiniest electrician that side of the Aegean. No more than four and a half feet in his socks and with the hands of a foundling, the acne-faced sparky could only reach the fuse box by standing on a folding garden chair. We watched from the wings as he tiptoed precariously on the edge. Liam checked our liability insurance and I went for a lie down in a darkened room. Progress was slow but studious. Acneface fiddled with the fuses for hours, oozing confidence and reknitting the mass of wires like a seasoned village weaver. At last, his work was done and when he flicked on the kitchen light and the infrared heater fired up, young Faraday smiled a satisfied smile. His excitement reached disco pitch when the air-conditioning unit powered up as Liam switched on the kettle. Finally, through a tortuous process of trial and error, he concluded that the root of the problem was an unexplained surge in one of the ring circuits. To test his theory, he plugged in the Wi-Fi modem. Bang went the modem. He plugged in the TV. Bang went the surge protector. He plugged in the water heater. Bang went the circuit board. As a flume of smoke filled the house, bang went our tempers and we threw Acneface out onto the street.

Hanife and her charge returned early the next morning.

'He is cousin,' she said. 'But he is fool. I have extracted confession.'

'Extracted?' asked Liam.

'Yes. He will pay.'

'Thank you, but there was no need to waterboard the poor boy on our account.'

Hanife handed Liam a small dish containing an oblong of milky chicken jelly.

'Is gift. I make.'

'Thank you.'

'Tavuk göğsü.'

'I'm sure Jack will love it.'

'So,' said Hanife. 'My cousin, not electrician.'