When we arrived, Jessie became a social hit and she’s been riding the wave ever since. I’m sure my ghosts have been scared off by the noise. Every day is showtime. What a difference to Spain. We begin with pleasantries exchanged after breakfast, when she goes on walkabout, and end with these gatherings. I sometimes wonder if it’s all an act to show me how everyone thinks she’s wonderful. Or are they her emotional bodyguard, protecting her from getting close to me again?

As they gather around tonight, it sinks in that it’s not a court at all: they are Followers of the Cult of St Jessie. (And I hope she’ll lead them in a mass suicide one day soon.)

Somehow, we’ve slid back. If I take too long at the toilet, she no longer looks anxious but askance. Even so, I feign constipation on a regular basis. This prompts her to feed me soaked prunes. When I feign an allergy to them, she buys senna pods from the bazaar.

St John, pronounced ‘Sinjun’ (as he tells everybody), went to Eton and Oxford (as he tells everybody) and is a scientist for Glaxo in Istanbul (as he tells everybody), pausing to monitor the impact. He brings with him the British Class System, and his boyfriend, Muhammad.

We have what is called a transient population here. Antipodeans, Scandinavians, Americans, all manner of western Europeans and Yugoslavs. Sometimes there’re as many as twenty paying homage.

Oh, and there’s someone else here too. Whatsisname? Ah, yes, I know, that nondescript little fellow called Stanley, sitting out of the loop and getting quietly sozzled.

Night is now seeping into my pores. The lagoon and sky have turned the shade of violet last seen in the young Elizabeth Taylor’s eyes in Cleopatra. The eucalyptus trees above suddenly look like blurred willow trees that should be hanging over a swamp. Bats begin to swoop from one tree to the other. I do my nightly duty by lighting some candles that hang in little baskets from the cabin. The rest of the camp is sitting outside as well, or else they are getting ready to go out. Some are putting young children to bed or letting them run noisily around. The Turkish pop music in the café has just been raised a notch, unfortunately.

I turn back to hear Jessie sounding off about money. About how we believe the point of it is to enjoy it today because a bus can run you over tomorrow. It isn’t the royal ‘we’. It’s the cringe-making ‘we’. I’ve put up with it all summer.