Birvidik

Season's greetings from the Marmaris chapter of Hell's Angels. We've been lent a scooter for the winter by that nice Brian and Linda from the motor boat Tickety-boo, who have, for some unfathomable reason, decided to return to Blighty for the winter. It's not true what they say about stinkpot owners - some of them are very nice people indeed.

At first we were somewhat nervous about riding it, what with the fatalistic attitude to driving exhibited by most Turkish drivers - Insh'Allah and all that. In addition, the tiny wheels are not the best design for the Turkish roads which, with their many deep potholes and nasty adverse cambers, are better suited to trials bikes.

Unfortunately, Bob seems to have got the hang of it and has gone native. He's starting to drive like a Turk, which Liz is finding a degree disconcerting. He's already started suddenly turning left across busy roads, executing U turns on dual carriageways, driving the wrong way down one way streets and taking short cuts through pedestrian precincts. He hasn't yet driven into the supermarket or the marina, but it's only a matter of time. Having begun driving it sedately and remaining primly upright, steering round corners without so much as a degree of lean, he's now slinging it into corners with gusto, only to be noisily reminded by the grinding noise as he grounds the stand that it's not designed to be Barry Sheened.

Marmaris is following the usual winter pattern for yotties, being a frantic round of activity, far too much alcohol and the joyous entertainment of pontoon politics.

We'll start with the too much alcohol part.

Steph & Stuart have had the good grace to slope off to New Zealand for the winter, so we have at least a small chance of giving our livers a rest. But what is it with yotties' drinking habits? They all start drinking at some impossibly early hour. This is partially explained by their innate stinginess, as the marina bar serves cheap beer between 6 o'clock and 7:30, but that only exacerbates an existing tendency. "Do come round for a drink" they say to us (usually before they really get to know us). "Love to", we say, "What time?" - expecting a sensible time such as 8 to 8:30. Oh no. They suggest ridiculous times like 5 o'clock or even earlier. At that rate we stumble back to Birvidik at about 9 o'clock and blunder incoherently about the galley in a usually futile attempt to muster something to eat.

We now try to negotiate times along the lines of haggling prices with a Turkish merchant. They start off with some ludicrous time like 3:30 in the afternoon. We counter by suggesting two o'clock in the morning. They snort at this and spin a pitiful tale of the disastrous effect such a late night will have on their mental health and already fragile family life, but magnanimously concede a start time of 4:15. We respond with harrowing descriptions of sclerotic livers and malnutrition, but generously suggest midnight.

Entering into the spirit of things, they come up to 6 o'clock on the strict understanding that we take personal responsibility for the collapse of their marriage, the decline of their children into a life of delinquency and the rapid worsening of their irritable bowel syndrome. We come down to 9:30 on the condition that they sign a waiver on the irritable bowel syndrome and meet us halfway on the costs of the liver transplants. We usually end up on about 7:30, which pleases nobody, but at least it's fair in that we're all equally pissed off.

The social activities are many. Liz goes to yoga at 8:30 in the morning three days a week. Bob has been outmanoeuvred by Justin from Belle Helene. Justin used to be a headteacher. Demonstrating an impressive mastery of Senior Management Skills he publicly volunteered to take on the organisation of the Turkish language classes and then cunningly engineered things so that someone else (in this case Bob) ended up doing all the actual work. Absolutely brilliantly done. Bob needs to sit at the feet of the master - watch & learn, boy, watch and learn.

As a result, Bob is now giving Turkish lessons to around 30 yotties twice a week, which is a bit rich seeing as his mastery of the language is about on a par with that of the average Turkish foetus. Luckily, he has the assistance of the lovely Zaza who is a native Turkish speaker. He works on the system of staying just ahead of the class - about 10 minutes ahead, in fact, by the end of each lesson. No problem really - it's a system that served him well for the previous 30 years.

Success in the weekly quiz has been enhanced by the exile of Bob's nemesis, Sheila, to an Israeli marina within rocket range of Gaza. However, the rules have changed so that whoever wins has to set the next week's quiz. Having done this twice we now endeavour to take a dive in the second round so as to come second. This takes tactics worthy of a poker professional, but we cracked it last week, coming second by one point.

Pontoon politics can wait until the next entry.

Have fun.