Stone cold sober

I'm concerned.

No, scrap that, 'concerned' is too flimsy a word, I'm looking for a word that encompasses absolute panic.

I'm freaking out, that's probably a better phrase.

Why?

Vodka doesn't work.

When vodka doesn't work, you know you've got problems.

I suppose I should explain. 

My friend visited this weekend from Norway. It was great to catch up with her, and it was strange because it felt like she'd never been away, we seemed to slot back into our old roles like nothing had changed. That in itself was worrying. That sounds horrible I know, but it's not meant like that, what I mean is, it's been two and a half years, and nothing has changed. Now do you see why it's worrying?!

My friend has travelled and lived in Australia for a year, I haven't done much other than get my heart broken and decide I want to live in Turkey. I suppose you could say that's progress, at least I made a decision, and getting your heart broken is life experience, right?

So anyway, not much had changed. We went out for a drink, one drink turned into three pitchers, and before you know it, Nicky was a tad bit drunk. Yes, I know, it's easily done. However, this was a kind of drunk I hadn't experienced before, and to be honest, I didn't like it one tiny little iota.

I sloped off around 10pm (shameful, I know) feeling like someone had deflated all the helium out of my little balloon. It was like the world's biggest downer. I got the bus home, there I sat, all sorry for myself, bundled up in my coat and scarf, tears in my eyes, and an old man took pity on me and asked if I was okay.

What did I say?

'Fine, thank you'?

Nooooo.

'I don't knoooooowwwwww' was my wailing reply. 

The poor man looked like he'd wished he'd never asked and went back to reading his newspaper.

I have never felt more like I didn't belong, like I wasn't where I was meant to be, and like I was missing something.

It was horrible.

The worrying thing about all this is that I figured I feel so bad when I leave Marmaris/Turkey because I don't have much of a social life here, other than going to zumba and talking to my friends on the phone all night. If we're talking about going out on Saturday nights, well I just don't do it, because a) it's too cold, b) it's too expensive, and c) it's crap.

But anyway, I thought maybe a social life was the answer to my prayers. Turns out, it's not. Vodka is not my friend, going out makes me feel worse, and spending money means I have less to go to Turkey with. I've just got to make peace with the fact that I'm pulled to this place for a reason.

So what am I supposed to do? Be miserable for 46 weeks out of 52?

So I have been proactive, and developed a plan. Every girl should have a plan.

Give me a year, a healthy dose of luck (fingers crossed), and things will be looking much, much better, and I'll be situated in a much more easternly direction.

In the meantime, I'll be giving vodka a very wide berth indeed, because I was this close to grabbing an empty bottle, sitting in my PJs, and singing 'Allllll byyyyy myyyysellllllfff' a-la Bridget Jones, and that, dear readers, is never a good look, even for Renee Zellweger.

Smile like you mean it ...

Warning - depression-laden post ahead. Read at your own risk.

 

Marmaris has done a number on me again.

I'm not sure how it manages it; I mean, this is a sunshine drenched holiday place, it's meant to make people happy. I leave the airport a generally undepressed person, with a decent job, friends (albeit ones that never want to go out) and a fair few hobbies to keep me occupied, and I return a borderline depressed, post-alcoholic, no hope for the future, would-rather-be-somewhere-else shell of a person.

This surely is not healthy.

This is why I have decided to put the grand plan into action, for the sake of my health, sanity, and the sanity of those around me too.

Why do I go if it makes me feel this way? I hear you ask. Well basically, when I'm at home, I'm on countdown to go back, so I don't do anything, and I settle - and when I get out there, I live. Go figure.

I've realised that settling is not for me.

I've been going to Marmaris, and Turkey in general, for the past 5/6 years and during that time I've made lots of friends, lost a few, had more arguments than I can remember, laughed more than I ever thought possible, had a relationship that nearly broke me in half but came out stronger, lived and generally smiled quite a lot. Every single time I leave I cry, every single time I leave I swear blind next time won't be as bad, but every single time it's always worse and I come back more and more down. This time is the worst of the lot, and I thought last October would take some beating.

Oh you lucky, lucky readers!

There is no man involved, not really, before anyone asks, because last year's antics taught me that Turkish men are a species like no other, and if you want to keep your brain and heart intact, you're best having your fun and leaving it behind, as much as possible anyway. I'll admit I find this difficult, but it's a work in progress. No, my heart breaks every time I leave Marmaris because, as dramatic as this sounds, I feel like I leave part of me behind.

I'm slowly building up a support network and a life over there, and the damn frustrating thing is that I can't live it yet, because I was stupid when I was young, and I signed a piece of paper that meant I owe the bank a decent amount of money. The other frustrating thing is that I seem to have fallen in love with a country that doesn't pay wages as high as here. If it did, believe me, I'd have been gone years ago. So unfortunately I'm left with no option but to stick it out, well unless I do a moonlight flit but I seriously wouldn't be able to handle the guilt. Therefore plan A is in full swing, well it's trying to be in full swing, it's more of a shuffle at the moment, but I'm hoping it gathers momentum.

I'm looking for an evening and weekend job.

I've decided that I can cut my waiting time down to a year, rather than two, if I can just earn enough money to make two repayments every month, rather than one. Why didn't I think of this sooner?

Of course, I'd love nothing more than to be saving up to get myself out for the summer next year, but life is a bitch and that is one hugely unrealistic option. So, save like a bitch I will, and I'll just get myself out on as many holidays next year as possible, and suck up the coming home depression. It'll all be worth it though, right?

Now, the downside of this great idea is that Britain seems to have turned into a place where jobs are like gold-dust and nobody wants you to make money. And people wonder why I want to leave. I'll do anything, seriously, I'll clean nighclubs if I have to, anything to get this dream off the ground because there's no way I can carry on like this. Aside from the fact, I'm not getting any younger ...

I can see you all rolling your eyes and thinking I'm 'doing a Nicky' - let's pat her on the head - but wait there, this is the first time I've been deadly serious.

I love my home, truly I do, my family and friends are there and I love them to pieces, but my future doesn't feel like it lies in my home town, or even this country, and I know the one place that pulls me back time and time again, and the one place I feel alive, the one place I've lived more than anywhere else, despite being in England for the past 30 years .... when you get a pull that strong, sometimes you just have to listen to it.

Maybe I'll fail, maybe those doubters (of which are are many) will be right, but at least I'll have tried, and at least I won't have a 'what if' hanging over me.

So first things first, I need a job. Or a lottery win. Whichever comes first. And then I need to work my arse off like never before. If I had a social life I might be bothered, but I don't, so really it shouldn't make much difference. It seems these days that any night out with friends needs to be planned around three or four weeks in advance, after checking multiple diaries, boyfriend/husband's commitments, kids' parties etc etc. Being the only single one amongst your group of friends is no fun, let me tell you - they think you have a party party social life, well if I managed to get out of the house once in a while, yeah I might have. Alas, I do not, as a girl sitting alone in a bar is never a good look, it screams 'loner'.

So please, if anyone out of the three people that actually read this blog have any ideas, they're very greatly appreciated - but please make them serious ones, I don't think I'd make much money selling my body, I'd probably end up owing them money.

Are you suitably depressed?! Welcome to my world ....

Socially phobic

I'm going home at the weekend. Well, my second home.

I'm quite proud of myself, I've managed just two trips this year, and that for me is quite the record. Actually, scrap that, I went to Istanbul didn't I? Maybe not so good then, I've been Turkey-bound three times again. Can't keep away from the place, I tell you.

Now if you believe the general consensus at the moment, the reason I can't keep away is nothing to do with me quite liking the place and going to see my friends, no it's clearly because I'm addicted to the male population of the country. I say this with my voice, and words, dripping with sarcasm. But hey, let's not get into that - it's a can of worms I really can't be arsed to open again.

This is partly the reason why I haven't been blogging lately, because I figured that once I started down that road, I'd rant and rave for weeks on end and nobody wants to read that.

So other than fretting about my suitcase weight, causing me to buy a new one - one of those ultra-light ones, just so I can fit an extra pair of shoes in, I've been mostly avoiding dates I quite fancied going on.

Yes, I am date-phobic.

I don't quite understand my problem; I can talk, I can jabber away for hours on end quite happily, so why do I clam up and find it utterly terrifying when faced with a male I don't know that well, and am forced to make small talk for an indefinable length of time?

It's because you can only talk about the weather for so long. I'm English, this is what we do, we bitch about the weather. This is all well and good, but how do you spin out precipitation and broken clouds for a couple of hours? I find it hard enough filling five minutes.

So I'll 'fess up. I've been asked out a few times lately, I don't know why this has happened, maybe it's because I gave up looking, but anyway, I've bailed on two dates, with two different dudes, and I'm considering bailing on another because the thought just brings me out in a cold sweat. I'd actually rather sit in my PJs, watching Eastenders, than go through the gut-wrenching terror of small talk. I don't like going to the hairdressers for this exact reason.

I think I need help.

My friend suggested alcohol, but from past experience this does not help matters, in fact it hinders it considerably, as me falling over and getting high pitched doesn't really help paint a positive picture.

This is why I'm eternally single, and will remain so if this little problem continues.

I'd be quite happy to fast forward the first few weeks and head straight to the more comfortable time where everyone knows where they stand and text/conversation analysis has gone out of the window. See, I'm not cut out for this, I'm far too paranoid to be questioning things at the best of times, without hearts and emotions getting in the way. I'm not the best at going with the flow either.

I might join a convent, what do you reckon?

Or failing that, emigrate to Turkey - you don't have any of this getting to know each other business out there, if you believe everything you hear.

Anyway, I'm hoping that my jaunt over the length of Europe re-ignites my love for blogging, because if I'm honest, I've been finding it rather difficult. I've had a crisis of confidence as far as my writing's concerned, to the point where I've asked several different people to read what I've done on my book so far, to give me a honest opinion on whether to carry on, or scrap it. I love writing, I just wonder whether anyone likes reading it, because as much as it's fun to do, it's always nice that someone enjoys the fruits of your labour.

Oh woe is me.

So the next time I write something, I will be sipping, sorry, gulping an Efes, scoffing a chicken kebab, looking out to sea from (hopefully) my sea-view hotel room and chilling the hell out. I wonder what drama will unfold this time, let's face it, it always does, and it's a full moon during the first few days .....

I can guarantee however that whatever goes down will remain in Marmaris.

Watch this space!

The art of poking

Shame on you and your dirty mind!

Of course, I'm talking about the Facebook variety of prodding someone you may or may not know. Lately, this seems to be more the latter in my case, as half of Turkey somehow deems it socially acceptable to prod me at all hours of the day and night.

It goes without saying that these rather uncomfortable nudges don't generally come from females.

Now don't get me wrong, I don't mind the occasional friendly poke, especially from my friends; it's more of a "remember me" kind of thing, or just a "hello". However, this week things have taken on a more slightly dodgy air.

Friends of friends now think I'm fair game to prod to the point of bruises, and do I know these people? Do I hell as like. Do my friends know these people? Well they're on their lists, but hell, I've got people on my list that I've only met once.

For all I know, a mass murderer could be inflicting these nocturnal nudgings on me.

It's for this reason, I don't retaliate. In fact, I'm not being old-fashioned when I say this, but who the hell wants to be poked?! It's not very romantic, is it? You wouldn't randomly walk up to someone in the street and start poking them in the arm going 'oi, look at me!' would you?

Well maybe you would, but I wouldn't, not where I'm from anyway, you'd get slapped for your efforts. I wouldn't recommend it.

I was "reliably" informed by my friend that Facebook poking has become a bit of a male dating ritual, to get the attention of any girl they like the look of. He also went on to tell me that during a decent poking session, this can generally involve anything up to 20 victims. Talk about spreading your net wide.

I'm not sure I'd be that flattered by it to be honest.

In fact, I'm not.

I'm ashamed to say I did actually involve myself in a poking war a few months ago, purely becuase I had nothing better to do, but I got bored after five minutes - what exactly is the point? And who wins? And what's the prize?

Bugger all, basically.

I'm off to tend my metaphorical bruises, I'm black and blue.

Down with the violins ... hello tissues

Cue the violins.

I am miserable. I am borderline depressed. I am full of cold. I need to go back home.

There, that's got it all out in the open.

Now let's get onto something more hopeful ... oh, wait, there is nothing.

I made the mortal mistake of looking through old photographs last weekend; anyone who is friends with me on Facebook will see that it triggered a week long sulk and depressed everyone within a five mile radius. I then decided that I hadn't tormented myself enough, so I dug out my old holiday blog from last October, and that really sunk me into the depths of despair.

Why, oh why, do I do this to myself?!

And I've been listening to Adele.

I might even have made a couple of ill-advised phone calls in an easternly direction ... which got me absolutely nowhere as per usual.

Someone slap me now.

I'm feeling the need for copious amounts of vodka, but I fear that'll just send me into a Bridget Jones-style 'All By Myself' singalong, but without the dodgy PJs. I don't even like vodka that much.

So whilst trying, and failing, to distract myself from my unfixed heart, I've decided I want to explore the country that I've decided my future lies in.

I love Marmaris, I really enjoyed Istanbul, but I want to see more. I want to see the real Turkey, I want to experience the real culture when the tourism element's taken out. I want to see a willage, sorry, village, and experience that. Forgive me and my western girl sensibilities, and yes I'm very grateful for all I've got, but I think there's something beautiful and stripped-back about the way of life in a south-eastern village, and I want to really see it for myself.

Problem with all this is, how the bloody hell am I going to manage it?!

I don't know anyone in a south-eastern willage, well I do, but he doesn't want me, so it's going to be a difficult one to sort out. I've found some places that do home-stay tours, but I don't really want to do a guided tour thing, I want to wing it. Might take some thought. The other places though, they're much easier to visit, so maybe I'll start with those and hope I make it back in one piece before I get too ahead of myself.

Anyway, anyone with any ideas, feel free to throw them my way ...

I'm still on countdown, as I always seem to be, and I'm starting to feel progressively more guilty for feeling this way. I have a good job, I have friends, I have a wonderful family, yet for some reason my heart screams for me to be somewhere else completely. It's got to be wrong, surely.

So yeah, as well as feeling heartbroken, lost, lonely and like I'm not where I should be, I now feel guilty.

Happy, happy days.

And here's me thinking my 30s were going to be fun ...

Consulting the oracle

I am feeling the need for a spooky intervention.

I get this sudden urge every so often, mainly because I'm impatient and can't just go with the flow. Patience is a quality I was born mostly without; I missed that queue, possibly taking too long in the queue for other more desirable qualities at the time, y'know the ability to eat one's body weight in chocolate and the like.

But this week, more than most, I've felt the need to consult the spooky oracle.The problem is, my spooky oracle is no longer in the spooky business, and a quick search on Google didn't really fill me with much confidence. There are some seriously questionable "psychics" parading as the real thing, it's quite insulting to the real ones.

As you'll probably guess, I've had a few readings over the last few years, some fantastic, some not so. One in particular was memorable for all the wrong reasons, when the lady in question told me I was going to see a spaceship and that I'd know it was it was, even if no-one else believed me.

Hmmm. Quite.

I did actually see something strange in the sky once ... but it was after copious amounts of vodka and we weren't that far from an airport at the time ...

I'm not sure why I feel this sudden compulsion to know what's going to happen, or what could happen if I take a certain path, or someone else decides to do something, or not, or ... oh God, my head hurts with the possibilities. I guess at the end of the day, what will be, will be, so maybe I should learn just to go with the flow. I like the excitement of a reading though, it fills me with possibilities and makes me feel positive. One area no psychic has ever managed to get right is my love life.

I've had spot on readings on career, home life, loads of other stuff, but my love life is only ever half-right - usually before the dude in question takes that other path we were talking about. Usually to someone other than me, much skinnier and usually with swishy blonde hair. Think Pantene advert and you're not far wrong. They're often Russian, or anything but northern-English too.

I'm starting to get a complex.

Anyway, you'll be pleased to know I've booked a flight back in an easterly direction, so I'm resuming doing what I tend to spend an overwhelming part of my life doing - counting down the days. It's worrying really, surely I should be living in the moment and enjoying life here as well as there, but noooo, time here is spent saving, planning and counting down, until it's all over, I get depressed, and then have to book again to semi-drag myself out of my stupor. Repeat process. When will it ever end?!

In the meantime I'm busying my mind with my writing, from which I have travel articles coming out of my ears and I'm actually running out of destinations to write about, and I've just enrolled on an online TEFL course. In case you're ignorant to such things, as I was until a few years ago, TEFL is Teaching English as a Foreign Language and it's basically the qualification you need, amongst other things, to teach English abroad. It's a start if nothing else, we'll see where that leads.

Back to the writing, and I started re-reading what I'd written on my book the other day. All 167 pages of it. I'm half way through. It's not bad y'know, it's not Harry Potter (thankfully), but it's not half bad. Hopefully by the time it's finished and tweaked to within an inch of it's life, it'll be even better than not bad. I've got a few other little plans on the horizon where my writing's concerned too ... it's all exciting stuff.

Maybe I don't need to be consulting Mystic Meg after all, maybe I should just go with that flow that seems to infuriatingly avoid me most of the time. Or maybe I should just do what normal people do ....

Read my daily horoscope and be done with it, or head to Yoga and realign my chakras.

All together now - ooohhhhmmmmmmm

Flirty Thirties!

Not sure who Micky is, but happy birthday to them!

I am 30.

How the bloody hell did that happen?

I main thing is, I survived. And let's face it, that's always a positive. The other positive is that I feel alright, in fact I don't feel any different. Age is just a number, right? I thought that was something old people said to avoid talking about their age - oh wait, I am old.

Okay, I'm not old, but not being in my 20s anymore has caused me a bit of grief over the last year or so, I have to admit. Now the painful day has gone, I'm not so bothered, because as long as I don't think about it, nothing's any different. Ignorance is bliss and all that.

It probably sounds weird, being so bothered about entering another decade, and I wouldn't mind had things gone to plan but, well, they haven't really. Whatever the plan was.

See, I was meant to be sorted by the time I was 30.

I'm not sure what I mean by sorted, and it was probably a totally unrealistic plan, but something along the lines of not single probably. Instead I'm permanently so, but I've decided that if it means being single and still looking for someone amazing, and not having been stuck with one of the undesirables I've tried in the past, well I'm probably in the winning position.

I was also meant to have figured it all out, y'know what I actually want to do with my life. Instead, I still haven't got a clue. Well I do, I've figured out the location of what I want, I just have to work towards getting there. As for what I'll do when I actually get there, that's still up for discussion. But I have ideas, so y'know progress.

Seriously though, I'm fine with it, it really is just a number, because I'm still the same and if anything, I still feel about 18. Which is a good excuse when I do really stupid things, because I can just blame it on my mental age. Or alcohol. Whichever is more appropriate at the time.

I'm taking a positive outlook on this, because to be honest that's how I've felt over the last few days. This is my decade. This is the decade where I pay off my debts, for definite because of the end date, where I can make the move I want, and where if it all goes spectacularly wrong, i.e. I bottle it, the only person I can blame is myself. There's something scarily exciting in that. So I'm looking forward to my future, I just have to wait a couple of years to be able to live it completely. That's the frustrating thing, but that's what happens when you stupidly sign a piece of paper from a bank, who stupidly offer to lend you stupid amounts of money, because you stupidly used your credit card for stupid reasons.

I was stupid.

No more.

Let this be a lesson people - loans are evil.

So anyway, to celebrate my day of birth a few years ago, I've pretty much had a week of festivities and spent quality time with my friends and family, which ended in a day at Alton Towers - which explains why today I feel my age, and as though I've done ten rounds with Mike Tyson - I'm bruised to hell and ache like ... well, hell. It was fun though, turns out I like screaming my head off, and I do indeed scream like a girl. It's very therapeutic, I should scream more often. Chance would be a fine thing, mind you.

Today has been spent looking for flights to take me back to where I should be. Turns out that's easier said than done. The cost of flying these days is not fun, and the flight times aren't either, but it's a small price to pay I guess. The next time I write a blog, I should be booked up - exciting! I can't wait to get myself back, I feel like I've been gone too long already and it's only been a fortnight. The countdown has begun ...

I'm now going to bid you goodbye, as I'm very much hooked on the third installment of the Fifty Shades of Grey trilogy. I'm sure you've all heard of it, and Mr Grey is calling my name as we speak. That's my aim for my 30s, I'm going to find Mr Grey - oh what a chore!

For the love of Marmaris

It's taken me well over a week to write this, because had I done it before now, you'd all have got the violins out, been borderline suicidal and would never have read anything I wrote ever again.

That is not the way to keep readers, and the guilt of lost lives would have consumed me forever.

So I thought it wise to wait.

I've been back from Marmaris for a week now; the urge to jump on a plane and go straight back is not abating any, in fact if anything it's getting worse by the hour. If I wait until the end of September, as per plan, it will be a miracle on the scale of Phil Mitchell staying off vodka. I've got to try though, thanks to the cost of flying being horrendous at the moment. There's a good argument for befriending a pilot here, but unfortunately I don't have any pilots on my Facebook list.

I love Marmaris.

I'll shout it out from the rooftops if I have to. I thought I'd fallen out of love with it, I wasn't even that fussed about going in the end - but a day or so into the holiday and I remembered it all, in glorious technicolour. And now I'm stuck with the memory and I'm not there anymore.

Sniffle, sniffle.

Cue violin time.

I will be there for longer soon, give it a while to get myself sorted and I'm there. At least this trip has taught me what I want all over again, and reminded me of the perils of settling - which is exactly what I was starting to do. Heaven forbid. I had visions of a rocking chair, golf-course and cats. Shudder at the thought.

Marmaris is the best and worst of humanity all rolled into one, yet for some reason I forgive it's bad bits and fall head over heels with the good bits every time. That's true love for you, right there. Who needs a man?! Five years and still going strong.

Speaking of men, this was the first trip back to the scene of the crime since it all went pear-shaped. It was weird, I'll admit, and I refused to go into the ex's bar (thankfully he was in Alanya, and not lurking behind a palm tree waiting to ambush me and drag me back to the darkness, with his questionable eyebrows), completely out of protest, which is just as well because it's been taken over and it looked, quite frankly, pants. So instead I found a new one, bar that is, before everyone jumps to the completely wrong conclusion.

Is that a tan?!

I had a ball. I had fun, I partied, I did everything the ex didn't allow me to do. I met some new friends, who I miss now I'm back, but will see again really soon. I actually had a proper holiday without rules. I missed him, and I shed a few tears, but I found closure and that chapter is complete.

Time to write some new ones.

Speaking of writing, I seriously regretting not taking my netbook, as inspiration hit in the biggest way whilst sat on a sun-lounger with a strawberry dacquiri in my hand. It could have been the alcohol but I took it upon myself to find paper and pen. Chaos insued. Turns out it's not easy to buy paper and a pen in high-season Marmaris. In the end I managed to convince a bemused-looking shop-keeper to give me some of his printer paper in return for me buying a pen for twice the price. I sat on the balcony, full of Efes, and wrote my little heart out. I wrote a letter to the universe, let's hope it listened. Time will tell.

My summer romance - Mr Efes

See, Marmaris might be bad for me in many, many ways, but in terms of inspiration, it's highly beneficial - in fact, I think it should be on prescription, I'd have a bestseller in months. If only. Writing is my future though, it helps me empty my head of crap and make sense of it, it distracts me from reality, and who knows where it might lead. If I can combine the place I love and the thing I love, I'll be a happy bunny, albeit a slightly borderline alcoholic bunny, thanks to the influence of Efes.

I'm deliberately not giving you a blow by blow account of the whole 16 days because it literally involved a lot of madness and, again, Efes, which is never a bad thing, but makes for really boring reading. There was the usual Marmaris politics, fights, drama and confusion - it wouldn't be Marmaris without it, but it all came good in the end. As per the way it always goes when I'm in that part of the world, the full moon had blood on it, and that night was, predictably, fight night. Turns out lightening does indeed strike twice. Or even three times in this case. They say Cancerians are ruled by the moon, I think I'm a complete case study to prove that correct.

The sun sets on Marmaris part 1 ...

I didn't have any commandments to protect me from the madness this time, because anyone who read them last time will know that I broke every single one of them in about four days. It was, quite frankly, a shameful effort, so I didn't bother this time. It's for the best, because I'd probably have broken them within two. I blame the Efes.

I always blame the Efes.

And the moon.

So first installment over, successfully survived - just. Only question is, how long will it be until part 2? Bets are on ...

Two weeks in a suitcase ...

I've decided it was a man who deemed it necessary to give holidaymakers a limit on luggage. It has to be, no sane woman would ever think it sensible to plan day and night outfits for 16 whole days. What about variation and choice? It's a woman's perogative to change her mind after all! Unfortunately 20kg and a smaller suitcase does not leave Nicky much room for changing her mind.

So it's in the midst of this packing hell you find me, surrounded by maxi dresses, playsuits and the occasional pair of leggings ... oh and a ridiculously tiny pair of black denim shorts - what the hell was I thinking?! Even Barbie wouldn't rock those bad boys.

I don't do packing at all well, mainly because my OCD kicks in and I convince myself I've forgotten something hugely important, like my make up or, heaven forbid, my GHDs. Two weeks in humidity without a pair of straighteners would be a disaster close to the great debacle of 2008, when I was forced to go cold turkey (literally) for two weeks from Wispa bars, thanks to me forgetting to buy a job lot at the airport. It wasn't pretty, trust me.

This whole palava isn't helped by my coach company, who shall remain nameless, deciding that my normal sized suitcase (in my opinion anyway), is too big to take on board, so I've had to borrow a smaller one. Now I can imagine you rolling your eyes, thinking I've gone and got a suitcase that's half a metre too wide or something - no, it's 2cm too long. Yes, you heard me right, 2cm.

Again, I'm convinced this is all down to a man.

Other than packing hell, I'm looking forward to my two weeks (and a bit) in the sun. I've actually forgotten what that bright light in the sky looks like, seeing as summer doesn't seem to have bothered coming to England this year. I fear my first day on the beach is going to be painful for all involved, when I blind everyone with my milk bottle skin in a bikini. Cover your eyes people, for your own safety.

It got me thinking back to last year though. Last week (yes, I've remembered the date) was a year to the day I met he-who-shall-remain-nameless. My god how things change. Funny what a year can bring. I'm not kidding myself that it's not going to be weird this year, a lot of people that were so linked in with my summer last year aren't there now, and from what I've heard, the resort has changed a fair bit. I've decided this is a positive though, because let's face it, the faces from last year haven't really served me well, unless you're into self-torture, which I'm not - so out with the old can only be a good thing. And now I've had time to think about it and the dust has settled, I'm glad the dodgy-eyebrowed-one is in a resort a few hundred miles away from where I'll be - or at least he'd better bloody well be.

A good few years visiting Marmaris has hardened me up - I might have lost my senses completely last year thanks to a few heavily-accented, charming words and a wiggle of an over-plucked eyebrow, but my last visit opened my eyes to the dark side of this beautiful town. The idea of falling for it all again makes me want to scratch my own eyes out, so no worries on that score.

What I have done instead, is buy a shed-load of Dairy Milk (very large bars!) to take with me, and the only action I'm intending on getting is with Mr Cadbury, and I can guarantee it will be a hell of a lot more pleasurable too.

I'm going to be quiet for about 3 weeks now, whilst I soak up some rays and turn into a giant freckle with a red nose, but I shall report with my findings on my return, unless my suitcase is too red/bulky/heavy/unstylish for the bus driver and I don't even make it to the airport, that is.

I tell you, it's all down to a man.

Ciao for now! xx

The sun has got his hat on!

Welcome to the British summertime ladies and gentleman - where it's boiling and hotter than Egypt for a few days, thunders and then rains for about a week, before remembering that this is Britain and the weather is meant to be crap, so it goes back to being grey.

For today however, it's hot, hot, hot.

This is putting me firmly in the mood for holidays. I've even got my flip flops out and boob-tubes, I am determined to get myself a strapless base tan, so I won't scare people on the beach in three weeks' time.

Yes, three weeks!

Other than the sun shining, this week has been a topsy-turvy one, mainly because I've been ill for some of it. I don't do illness, I turn into a baby who just wants her mum. I spent most of Thursday looking like an anaemic vampire, thanks to a particularly nasty bunch of antibiotics, which clearly did not suit me. Thankfully I'm better now, although more than a bit freckly. I love the sun, but seriously, why do I have to look like someone threw freckles in the air and I looked up at the wrong moment?

This week has also presented a developing problem. I'm a bit confused to be honest, so maybe you could share some light on it.

There's this guy who I'm friends with on Facebook, who I went to school with but didn't really have much to do it, mainly because he never really spoke to anyone. Now, he seems like a nice guy, but he's in the middle of some messy long-distance relationship, one that is in the midst of a possible breakup. Whilst she's making up her mind, he seems to have found his voice and started talking to me. A lot. Apparently I'm on reserve.

Nice.

Now it's good to talk, you ask Bob Hoskins in those BT ads, but I can't help feeling like a second option. The other thing is that I don't actually like him like that anyway, I'm just chatting because I'm a chatty kind of person, and if someone talks to me, well I was brought up to think it rude not to reply.

Maybe that's why I get myself into such messes.

So I'm sort of struggling to not get progressively more insulted by this. Maybe it's harmless, but this does tend to happen to me a lot. Guys tend to navigate in my direction when they're in the middle of a break up, having major relationship problems, or just split up with someone. They chat to me, blah blah blah, and then they miraculously sort our their problems, realise they were with the right girl all along, and I'm forgotten.

Maybe they should put me on prescription for those with relationship problems - send your fella my way, he'll soon realise he was better off with what he had before.

This might sound a bit dire, but come on, once is unfortunate, twice is a bit of a bitch, but three times? You have to start asking yourself whether you're the problem.

So whilst I'm thinking it's nice to chat to people you haven't spoken to in ages, I can't help but have to bite my tongue whenever a compliment is thrown my way - I don't see why I should be anyone's reserve - you either want me or you don't, and more to the point, I also get to decide whether I want you or not.

I tell you, the nunnery is the way to go. If I wanted confusion and games, I'd go to Turkey.

Speaking of which ....

I can't wait, I'm so ready for sun, kebabs and Efes. I'm wearing suncream right at this moment, sunning myself in the garden, and the smell of it is transporting me somewhere eastern.

I've recently started wearing contact lenses again for the first time in a long time. I am meant to wear glasses, but because I'm shallow and far too bothered about appearance, I just don't wear them, so I often end up looking like I need a really good sleep. I've decided that the time has come to yet again get to grips with my eyeballs - literally. I'm alright with them actually, touch wood, although I get freaked out when I take then out, in case I can't do it and I'm stuck with one in my eye. This came about because the first time I wore them, a few years ago, one of the lenses split in my eye and I ended up having to fish it out in two bits. Not the nicest of experiences. But technology advances and all that, and now they seem easier.

The point of this ramble is that I'm going to take them on holiday so that I don't look like I didn't get in bed til 6am throughout the day, even though I possibly didn't get in bed til 6am. What I am worried about is having a slight incident like last time and ending up at a Turkish hospital, having some random poking me in the eye. My travel insurance is slightly substandard at the best of times, I don't think it would cover the psychological trauma.

Anyway, I have a life plan update.

Are you ready for this?

I'm so proud.

I've paid off my credit card.

I know this may not sound like a major event to you, but this is one huuuuge step in the right direction for me, and I have to say, I'm quite impressed with myself.

The more I think about it, the more I think the traumas of the last few months were sent my way for a reason - to give me a firm kick up the backside and sort myself out. Luckily, it's working.

You know what they say, every cloud ....

Therapy

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm going to rant and rave and wallow in self-pity, but I can assure you that once it's out of my system, it'll be gone. I promise.

I think some people might see this as good news, in fact I know a lot will, but right now, to me, I feel like someone has punched me rather hard in the stomach - and I'm not talking a little weedy punch either, I'm talking a big, fat Amir Khan punch.

Ouch, to put it mildy.

As soon as I mention his name, well sort of name, you'll all moan and groan and probably not read anymore, but I can assure you, this is purely for my own therapy, because if I don't write about it, I'll probably cry and rant about it, and there's no way I'm messing up my eye make-up again.

The boy.

I'll pause for the groan.

It's been hanging but over for months, but I'm a girl and a cancerian one at that. And us cancerian girls fight when we feel, and oh my, did I feel. So despite it all going a bit wrong and him being, what I can now confidently call a twat, I still had the knowledge in the back of my mind that I'd see him in summer - and y'know, maybe like the films - he'll change, he'll see what he's lost and he'll want another chance. Yeah, I know, hilarious, more chance of Kilamanjaro melting. I can now quite categorically say that I've had my pink, sparkly bubble very much burst.

Hello reality.

The basic truth of the matter is that all the signs were there, I just chose not to see them, and I made some pretty crazy choices in the process. The only saving grace in the whole thing is that there literally is nothing more I could do, so it's not like I could look back on it and think 'if only I'd done ....' or 'what if', because the only 'what if' in the whole sorry state of affairs, is 'what if he wasn't such a monumental dick?'

Alas, he is a monumental dick, and sadly not in a positive sense either.

A coward too.

With dodgy eyebrows.

Who owes me 16TL.

But anyway, that's one year of my life I can't get back. Not the good bits, I'll keep those, because despite the whole pathetic story, I have nice memories and I had a hell of a time, but the bad outweighed the good, I just chose to sugar-coat that and pretend it didn't happen.

I've now woken up to the fact that it did happen, which is just as well really because it is now official that I will never see him again. And that's not a threat either, it's a geographical fact. There's something very wrong when a dude decides to up sticks and move cities to get away from you. I'm not sure whether I should take that as a diss or not, but I don't think I will, I'll just put it down to him being ... yeah, you guessed it, a monumental dick.

So, what now? Sigh, mope for a few minutes, block, block, delete. Goodbye forever. You have made your choice - you also made the wrong one.

Oh, and try and phase out the negative voice in my head going 'it's because you were ... (insert here), a) too miserable, b) not pretty enough, c) not slim enough, d) not rich enough (ha bloody ha), e) too clingy, e) just not memorable enough.

Yeah that's just me being a monumental dick now, I'll get over it, nothing a huge bar of Dairy Milk won't solve. I guess that's another positive to it, see I'm finding them now, the whole slim right down, glam right up and sashay my arse past him to make him see what he's missing plan can end. It's sad really, I was looking forward to that bit, I've now been robbed of the look on his face. Mind you, the diet wasn't really going that well to be fair.

So now that's all over, I do feel a tad bit bereft and feel the need to fill my head with something else, because I'll be honest, I've not thought of much else, despite protestations to the contrary. Right at this moment, I do feel a little free though, which is a novelty, maybe this holiday will be one to remember for all the right reasons, and one I won't come home from with borderline depression.

One can hope.

So I'm sorry for the hours of ranting and raving, I'm sorry for being so hideously blind to what everyone else could plainly see - but I'm a romantic and I wear my heart on my sleeve. The major positive? I know my worth, he's taught me that.

So y'know, thanks.

Meet my friend Ben .....

It has begun.

A little sooner than I thought, but it's certainly here. With avengence.

The burning desire to jump on a plane has crash landed into my life and caused Travel Republic's web traffic to shoot through the roof.

I so want to go. Now.

Why?

I haven't got the foggiest. The weather's still a bit crap, nobody's really there yet and not everything's open.

So why, oh why am I having to literally restrain myself from packing a suitcase?

I suppose I should explain what the hell I'm banging on about, just for the benefit of those that don't really understand, or aren't aware, of my colourful travelling history.

I'm holiday addicted.

It's a very expensive habit, and one that I don't really see myself kicking any time soon. Now, I get stick for this, not because I like going on holiday, but because despite protestations to the contrary, I always generally end up going back to the same place.

I'm addicted to holidays in Marmaris, Turkey.

If I had my way it would be one very long, extended holiday. But alas, I am skint, so holidays will have to do for the time being.

I think I know what's caused this to start so early on - it's because I had a plan. Yes, it was a rather ill-timed and niave plan, but it seemed like a good one at the time. Had things worked out with the boy, and by that I mean, had he not been practicaly mute for most of the winter, causing me to seriously question my own sanity, then I planned to go out there for the week, which would have been next week. Instead, the reality of the matter is, I'm not going out next week, in fact I'm not going out for a little while yet, and things certainly have not worked out with the boy, because I actually don't even know if he's working there this year at all.

Part of me hopes not.

One day I will be over this, I promise.

Is it wrong to be very excited about a holiday, yet at the same time, really quite worried about the state I may come home in? I don't want it again, I can't do all that again, it doesn't work, I've tried, so I'm going to try my damned hardest not to. However, me, vodka and the sight of a certain person really don't go together well, if you throw Efes into the mix, then my god, you're really asking for trouble. So that's why a little bit of me is hoping I don't have to deal with it. Will I succeed? Only time will tell I guess, but this time I know how it ends, so really, what is the point? Just show me the Efes, baklava and a chicken kebab or three, and I'm a happy girl - I don't need a broken heart, thanks very much.

I wouldn't mind, but he still owes me 16 TL.

Git.

Another reason why I'm quite keen to escape is the weather. I can't swim very well, so this torrential monsoon-like situation isn't filling me with much joy. It certainly didn't fill me with much joy when my ceiling started leaking yesterday either - trying to sleep with a 'drip drip drip' backing track isn't easy, let me tell you. Will it ever stop?! I have beautiful summer clothes that need wearing before they go out of fashion!

This is quite a depressing post isn't it? I do apologise, it's the rain - again blame it on the weatherman. I think I've got a derivative of SAD. Show me the sunshine and I'm smiling.

Speaking of which, I think I may go and indulge in something else that never fails to make me smile ......

Ben & Jerry's.

If you were thinking other things, shame on you and your filthy mind!

I have discovered Ben & Jerry's Karamel Sutra and OMG - who needs a man when you've got a tub of that bad boy? It hits places that no dude ever could. So of course I've bought three tubs. It would be rude not to.

In fact, I think I can hear it calling my name ......

Diet? What diet?

Dastardly deeds are afoot

Mwwwaaahahahah!

That's my attempt at some sort of evil genius laugh by the way, but why you wouldn't have got that the first time is beyond me, honestly, it's quite obvious.

I shall explain.

I have a plan. A fantastic plan that will bring me many things, such as:
a) closure
b) satisfaction
c) baggier fitting clothes
d) eternal happiness

Okay, the last one might be a bit hopeful/borderline crazy but the rest stand.

Yes people, I am on a mega diet. It is day 1, granted, but hell I feel goooood! Okay, I'm ravenous, slightly delerious, and am writing this post purely as a distraction from the contents of the biscuit tin. BUT! But I have stuck to points today! My stomach is gurgling very loudly as I type this, so that's got to be progress. And I will continue to tell myself this until the scales read about 5 pounds lighter than they do at the moment.

Oh good lord, I wish I'd been blessed with thin genes. Alas, I was not, I am doomed to work hard at maintaining a healthy BMI for the rest of my days.

But anyway, back to my evil genius plan.

I have around two months until my bikini is forced into the light of day. That is plenty of time to streamline a little more and achieve said bikini body. However, the plan is about much more than not scaring people on the beach, oh yes, the plan is a form of ..... would you call it revenge? Hmm, maybe, but whatever it is, it'll be damn good.

Oh god, there gurgles the stomach again.

But anyway, the plan, yes the plan is designed to show the boy, yes him again, just what he lost. Oh it will be sweet, believe me. I shall make him rue the day he decided to only very infrequently call me throughout the entire winter, albeit with nice words when he finally decided to get his arse to a computer, leaving me sobbing into my pillow for much of the first few months of it, and then randomly last night when I had a rather ill-timed, and out of the blue wobble. I blame that Pink song, you know, the one I couldn't listen to for a while? Yeah, turns out it's still not so great even now. But anyway, onwards and upwards.

My line is drawn, it is done, but oh, come on ladies, who hasn't wanted to sashay past their ex looking every inch the glossy, groomed, svelte princess? I shall be the one that got away. And matey, you will rue the day, believe me.

I think I might have gone a bit crazy through lack of food. Don't worry though, I'm not going crazy crash diet mad, I know what I'm doing, I've done it before plenty of times, I'm a sensible girl and all that. But give it a few weeks and I'll be a sensible, thinner girl, with new glossy hair, the definite abscence of that rogue spot on my chin and a nose piercing that won't be as red as it is at the moment. I shall be flawless.

Sort of.

The one who made my heart thud and flutter, made me go back to Marmaris three times in the space of a few months, hence making my bank balance look a lot thinner than me, and the one who ruined my Christmas because I couldn't get him out of my head - he shall shake his head and go 'what was I thinking letting her go?' or whatever the Turkish is for that. Because believe me, I've realised this lately, he lost a good 'un, and short of a near miracle in the form of a total personality transplant and a time machine to change all the bad, he lost her for good, and that's really quite sad.

So roll on breakfast time, I'm bloody starving.

Silly season begins

I've written this blog three times now, the first was the stupid computer's fault, and the second was because I just ranted on for about four A4 pages, and I realised people would stop reading after the first few lines. Doesn't make for repeat readers, let me tell you.

Anyway, this weekend I have been mostly eating far too much chocolate and writing about exotic, and not so exotic places, whilst dreaming about my own upcoming jollies to slighty exotic places. The eating chocolate thing proves that I have a serious problem with moderation, i.e. I don't know the meaning of it. Diet starts tomorrow. Or maybe the day after.

The worrying thing about it being April is not the rain, although that's not compatible with good hair, but that it's only a month to go until the sinking feeling will return. I've got a slight sink going on already, it's building up to be a shocker, I can tell. But no, next month the desperate want to jump on a plane and head east will begin again. It's hideous, I'm trying to sort myself out, not get into more trouble, arrgh! The only person's finances that are going to be looking up at this rate, are Travel Republic's - certainly not mine. Roll on a couple of years when I don't have this trauma because I'll already be there.

Phew. Deep breath.

Anyway, the whole imposter at large thing seems to be sorted, I think anyway. For all I know I could have an evil triplet by now, but to be honest, by summer there'll probably be an army of imposters causing havoc that I won't know about, so why worry? I guess the ones that matter know the truth, and that's all that counts.

Further evidence (god, I really do sound like Poirot now) has come to light, pretty much confirming in my mind who's behind it. Lordy lordy me, it's a sad state of affairs.

What I affectionately refer to as silly season has begun. This is where any female with Turkish/Kurdish friends on Facebook suddenly gets an influx of randomers 'poking' them. Why, oh why? Well I can only assume that in the mind of these randomers, 'poking' tourists will of course lead them to visit said poker during season, and as if by magic, bam! There's that week's girlfriend. I've become bitter and twisted over winter, can you tell?

I blame the boy.

I still blame him for most things.

I also blame him for the nasty irritation in the pit of my stomach on the realisation that now silly season is upon us, he'll be unleashed on the female visiting population of Marmaris again and I'll be forgotten. But then I probably have been already, so what's the point in thinking about it?

Because I'm not as heartless as him, that's why. Grrrr, it must be nice to have an on-off switch like that.

But hey, it's my challenge to get over that thought, let's face it, it's gonna happen, if it's not already.

So that leads me seamlessly (anyone would think I'd been writing articles) onto the weekly disasterous love life update.

In short - still disasterous, yet slightly more humourous.

When I'm not battling my Kurdish demons and memories, I'm batting off overly amourous advances from randoms - one wanting me to help him practice, and I quote, "tantric massage". I kid you not. He even offered to reimburse my travel costs. Do these people have no shame?! And before you ask, no I did not take him up on his offer!

The stalker is still at it. Clearly not at all lacking in confidence, because rejection doesn't seem to bother him in the slightest, and the excuse of not having a mobile phone for him to call me on is still working. Come on dude, open your eyes, who doesn't have a mobile these days?!

I'm reading a book at the moment, total chick-lit but quite good, called The Dating Detox. It's about this girl who's so sick of all the crap that goes along with dating, so she calls time on it and goes cold turkey. Is it wrong that when I typed that, I automatically put a capital letter in front of Turkey as if the country is all I would ever be typing about? Sweet baby Jesus, I need to go somewhere else.

Anyway, back on topic, when she decides she's not available, all manner of opportunities come her way, but she realises that she's happier without a man, without any of the drama, washing-machine stomach of anxiety and worry that comes with dating. I think she might be onto something, and maybe that explains why the more you say 'no', the more it becomes a challenge to make you say 'yes'. Not gonna happen mate, not gonna happen.

So I might try this, I mean I'm not going to admit it's an enforced detox, because hey if I wanted to there's always ..... erm ....the stalker ....

But that's my thing now, I'm detoxing my life of randomers, pokers, tantric masseurs and people trying to clone me on Facebook.

Surely these things don't happen to normal people?!

A case of stolen identity

Is that the sun??!

Oh my days, what a week!

I'm not quite sure where to start, well I am actually - cue rant.

This week, I discovered I have an evil twin. I didn't know about her, in fact had a friend not told me, I'd still be none the wiser, and she'd be off causing all manner of chaos, parading as little old me.

I shall explain.

There I am, chatting to a friend on Facebook, and I'm asked why I have two profiles. Er, I don't, why would I? So in all innocence I say exactly that. Yet no, he tells me he is friends with me twice. Thinking this is all very odd, I go off to investigate. Well I ain't no Poirot but it wasn't difficult, and yes, he was right, he was indeed friends with "me" twice. Some weirdo had decided to create a fake profile and pretend to be me. I should be pleased really - immitation is the greatest form of flattery, after all.

I don't know if this has ever happened to any of you, but seeing yourself staring back with an almost right date of birth (although they'd made me a year younger, so thanks for that), and a single relationship status that all manner of random Turks had 'liked', is a bit creepy. I couldn't see the rest, which is probably a blessing.

Now, as I said before, Poirot I ain't (for those of you that don't know, he's some weird looking, mustached, TV private investigator, circa 1990) but I didn't really burst many brain cells figuring out who could be the culprit.

I highly doubt they're reading, but if they are (and I say "they" in the plural sense) - grow the hell up.

Why the silly games? Lord only bloody well knows, when I start to understand the workings of this, then I'll know I've stooped hideiously low, so good thing I don't understand. For a short while there I thought I'd been transported back in time to primary school.

So anyway, normal service has been resumed, Facebook have been informed, fake profile removed, and thanks to my friend, it's sorted.

So imposters discussed and over with, let's move onto the positive.

I got another writing assignment! Happy days.

All this writing about summery, beachy places is giving me majorly itchy feet though. I can't wait for summer. Actually, when I woke up Monday morning and saw this strange circular, bright light in the sky, I wondered what it was. Turns out it was the sun, and it's been shining quite a lot this week. It's stopped now, of course, we only get a few days at a time, and that's probably English summer over with now. I got my legs out though, I blinded the masses. Actually, that's probably why the sun's gone in .....

It's true what they say though, the sun shining really does make you feel better, I've felt like i've had a spring in my step this week, and I don't actually know why. Nice feeling though.

You're waiting for the weekly disasterous love life update aren't you?

Well obviously imposter me has a better time of it in that department, people "like" her status. Mind you, she's probably been off slapping about with all manner of randoms, and I, on the other hand, have not. Thankfully.

So the stalker - still stalking. I shouldn't call him that really, he's not a stalker in the figurative sense, he doesn't turn up at my house and hide in the bushes or anything. But yeah, still not giving up. Still trying to convince me to give it a go. I'm still telling him the same as I have done all the other fifty thousand times - No. I'm beginning to wonder if he comes from some planet where 'no' actually means 'yes'. I'm not going to try saying the opposite though, things might get a bit confusing.

I did have a little progress though, not in the sense of anything actually happening, but in that for the first time since I met the boy (remember him? Turkish dude, questionable motives), well I actually saw someone and thought 'yeah I actually could really like him', amongst other things. So that's got to be positive. Of course said dude is coupled up, so no chance there. I really do have bad taste in men.

So anyway, the real me is signing off now, not the fake me. The real me has articles to write.

Ciao for now!

An Eastern Adventure

I am knackered. I have bags under my eyes that I’m surprised Easy Jet didn’t try and charge me for. I also have a knackered shoulder thanks to National Express thinking that their seats are in any way suitable for long-distance travel.

However, this was all in a good cause.

Istanbul baby!

It was absolutely fantastic – tiring, but sooooo worth it.

I know what you’re thinking, and you can stop right there! No, it had nothing to do with a man. I’ll  reiterate that because it seems nobody believes me, and in most people’s eyes, the only reason a girl would go to Istanbul in winter is to see a guy. Wrong! This girl goes to Istanbul in winter for fun girly weekend breaks, chicken kebabs, Efes and baklava. No men involved. However there was rather a lot of Efes involved, but that’s never a bad thing.

It was an overall really positive trip in a lot of ways, the main one being that I may have come to my senses in regards to the boy. Shock horror! Yes, I know, long overdue. I’m done. I think. I really don’t want to be done, but I’m done. Bottom line is, yeah I still have feelings, quite strong ones, but I deserve to be treated better. Done.

Are you convinced yet? Have I said the word ‘done’ enough times?

But really, I’m done. Honest I am.

So anyway, back to our little adventure.

Getting ready in Nottingham

For the many things I saw and learnt in those four days, one of the first was that student night in the middle of Nottingham is, erm, yeah, interesting. I come from a large town, so I thought I’d seen most things with regards to nights out, but bouncers in McDonalds? That’s a new one on me. I don’t fancy their job either, with some of the sights that attempted to cross the door for a Big Mac. Scary. In fact, they made Ronald McDonald look friendly.

In case you were wondering what the hell we were doing in a city in the Midlands, when I was meant to be heading east – meeting my mate en route. See, now you understand.

So then came the first trauma of a very long night and day - my first ever Easy Jet flight. Yeah, I was an Easy Jet virgin – and after attempting to get seated, I understood why. Oh my god, talk about cattle market. It’s a good job we’d loaded up on Krispy Kremes and Starbucks otherwise I might just have lost my rag with the pushing, shoving and general rudeness. And that was just the stewardesses. We eventually got seated and on our way; I think my stress levels dropped somewhere over Germany, and that was only thanks to my second donut of the day. Breakfast of champions.

The moment we landed in Turkey I felt like I’d come home. My friend agreed.

Don’t roll your eyes. It just felt right, and considering I’d never been to Istanbul before, you’ve got to admit that’s pretty weird. I can’t explain it, I just connect with the place for some reason, everything about it. Okay not everything, I did end up having a rather heated debate over the whole Turkish/Kurdish thing at one point, but it’s fine, we agreed to disagree. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to fully explain, or understand, why a country that five years ago, I had no interest at all in visiting, has managed to get me hook, line and sinker, completely in love with it. But I ain’t complaining.

So Istanbul.

Crossing from Asia to Europe

Istanbul is big. Huge in fact. That’s one big assed city. It was also one very cold, big assed city. But a wonderful, cold, big assed city all the same. We didn’t get lost either, well apart from in the Grand Bazaar but I’m assured that even the locals get lost in there, so you can’t really blame us for that.

And then it snowed.

Now I’ve learnt that in England, we are absolutely crap at snow. I’ve suspected this for a while, my ex-flatmate was Norwegian, well she is Norwegian still, but whenever it snowed she used to roll her eyes and mutter about how we used to stop everything and panic, when in Norway everything just carried on. She’s right, I’ve seen it with my own eyes now. Nobody batted an eyelid when massive white flakes started falling from the murky sky and people started sliding down the street, rather than walking. We were shrieking and muttering about cold, whilst trying not to fall over. Spot the Brit. But the snow added a certain something to it, I have to admit. Frostbite maybe, but it was pretty.

Beautiful Blue Mosque at night

We did the normal touristy things – Blue Mosque (beautiful and so serene, although the fashion look we were forced to adopt, headscarf, no shoes and dodgy blue wrap thing, because apparently leggings aren’t considered the thing to wear (even when covered by a dress), was not something Gok Wan would have approved of), Hagia Sofia (really took my breath away), Grand Bazaar (lost! Was just like Marmaris bazaar on acid basically), and Taksim square (busy!). We also did the normal touristy thing of getting conned.

The new fashion trend .. it'll catch on!

You’d think we’d know better, it’s far from the first time we’ve been to this country, but no, we fell for several scams, which thankfully we can laugh at now.

The first one was due to us being completely and utterly naive, there really is no other excuse for it, we should have known better. There we were, stood taking photos of Blue Mosque, trying not to turn blue ourselves due to the cold, when this tall, dark, handsome stranger comes over and starts asking us where we’re from, telling us that he talks to tourists to practice his English. Yeah, I know, looking back it’s obvious, his English was better than mine. Then he asks if we want to go to his shop for a drink because Turkish hospitality (we heard this phrase far too much from men over the course of the weekend) says that if you have a drink with someone, that means 40 years of friendship. I know, I know – gullible.

Yes, we went. Yes, we’re naive. Turns out his shop was a carpet shop.

Yeah, I’ll pause for you to laugh.

In our defence, it was a carpet shop with central heating, so all was not lost.

We got our cup of cay, but we also got the hard sell from his boss, after the dude who had collared us in the street, the one who wanted to be our friend for 40 years, had conveniently disappeared. Hmmm, ploy to get girls into the shop? Methinks so. Needless to say, we didn’t buy a carpet, I can’t say I have 500 quid going spare, and if I did, I wouldn’t be spending it on a carpet. We did however play him at his own game and pretend we were interested in purchasing one, making him get loads and loads of carpets out, us sitting there going ‘no, I don’t like that one’, ‘yeah that’s nice’, ‘oh have you got that in pink?’ Served him right.

We managed to escape eventually, after he made me take loads of photos of the carpets on my phone because we’d lied and said we’d call someone back home with a photo of one, as they may be interested, then return later.

Needless to say we didn’t.

Needless to say those photos are no longer on my phone either.

So then we headed out to Hagia Sofia, and found the Istanbul version of the famous Marmaris chat up line ‘let’s go for a walk on the beach’. Anyone who’s been to Marmaris will know that a ‘walk on the beach’, does not involve walking. Seems the Istanbul version of this is to hang around well known tourist spots, and randomly compliment English girls, telling them that it’s Turkish hospitality (that again) and do we want to meet him later in Taksim for a glass of wine. Er, no. What’s your name again?!

Shameless, I tell you.

Pleased with our day of sightseeing in the snow, we decided to head over to Taksim to meet a friend for some well-deserved Efes. Then came scam number 2, or 3 if you want to look at the wine thing another way - taxi on a meter. Normally I wouldn’t get in a taxi without agreeing a price first, but it was absolutely Baltic, snowing and there were no taxis to be seen apart from this particular one, which is odd considering on our last night, there were more taxis than ants on the pavement in summer. So in we get, being far too trusting again – bad move. A taxi that should have cost us 15 lira, ended up costing us nearer 30, thanks to him driving around in a rather large circle, hoping we wouldn’t notice. In the end we got our friend to speak to him on the phone and he practically threw us out earlier than he should, luckily we managed to find our way. Git.

The final scam (yes, we had one for every day we were there) was a little old man, who we thought we were helping out. Wrong again. Turns out the sweet, little old man, was a conman instead.

What would you do if an old, tottering man walked past you and dropped his shoe brush? You’d shout him back and pick it up for him, right? Well being well mannered girls, that’s what we did. And when the old man shouted after us and offered to shine our shoes for helping him, being typically British we bumbled a bit, saying ‘oh no need’ before he took the initiative and practically began shining our boots anyway. Nice old man he was, telling us about his children, who then became his starving children, who we then bought dinner for when he charged us 20 lira each. Shiny shoes though.

You live and learn.

Something I will never learn, it seems, is that me and alcohol do not go together well. Well, we go together well at the time, not so well a couple of hours later when I’m sat on the bathroom floor, groaning that I’m never drinking again. It was worth it though, we had a great night, and for the first time in ages I forgot all the crap (i.e. the crap with the boy) and just had a good time. I liked that feeling. I’m keeping hold of that feeling.

There are definitely some sights in Taksim of an evening though, at one stage I wasn’t sure if I was looking at a man or a woman, whatever it was, it was very convincing either way. It also seems that rocking up at a restaurant serving dessert at 3am is perfectly normal, as is eating Baklava and kunefe washed down with Efes at 3am. I have to say, it’s my kinda city.

Baklava

Kunefe

I’ve yet to decide which I prefer – baklava or kunefe, but it’s a close call. It’s also what I’m blaming my 3lb weight gain on. Nothing to do with the Efes at all.

The next morning though, after groaning about never drinking again, I woke up with the hangover of all hangovers. We were not up for sightseeing, I didn’t really feel like I was up for keeping anything solid down either, but you’ll be pleased to know I managed it. So instead of going to Topkapi Palace like we’d intended, we meandered around, with the sole intention of finding Starbucks, and actually ending up down near the fish market and walking along the sea front. It was nice, and it blew away some of the hangover. It was on this walk we came across the shoe shine man. I blame the hangover, and the lack of Starbucks. The ironic thing about this is that when you’re not looking for Starbucks in Istanbul, you’ll find three; when you want one, there’s none to be found.

For some reason the hangover made us slightly more adventurous and we bravely tried the underground on our own. We didn’t get lost. How good is that? We were ridiculously proud of ourselves and took a few photos to prove it. Yeah, we’re sad, but it was fun. We also did the obligatory bit of shopping and found the most bargainous of bargains, a shop selling loads of costume jewellery for 3 lira each. We managed to bag ourselves 100 lira’s worth of jewellery for 15 lira. Now if that’s not a find, I don’t know what is. And it is in this shop that I decided I was definitely getting my nose pierced. I mean, you get a pack of 5 gorgeous nose studs for 3 lira, of course it’s a sign you must get a hole punched through your nose.

Look closely - needle!

Well, I thought it would be punched through, turns out it was stabbed through with a very large needle and left in for a while, whilst my mate took photos of me looking like something out of a tribe. Hideous. The guy doing the deed kept stopping to laugh at me, which didn’t fill me with much confidence – surely it’s perfectly normal for your lip to quiver when someone’s coming at you with a 10cm needle, with the intention of sticking it through your nose?! He’s lucky I didn’t punch him, it’s a bit of a reflex action in self-defence where needles are concerned. You wouldn’t think I’d got three tattoos.

But I was brave anyway, and I now have a cute pink, sparkly stud. What isn’t cute is the rather large hook on the end of it that I have to keep in for six weeks whilst it heals. Driving me mad already, but I’m assured it’ll be worth it when I can put a normal backed stud in. And I have five to choose from, remember.

Decisions, decisions.

There was far too much to see in four days, and the sheer size of the place made it practically impossible to see it all anyway, but what we did see was totally worth it. I remembered what I love about Turkey without the boy being involved, because I admit I was starting to think that he was the reason for it all. Thankfully I’ve remembered he isn’t, and I remembered how to party with my friends and have a great time in their company, without constantly feeling guilty, looking over my shoulder or feeling sad about who wasn’t there. 

I think maybe I found myself again in Istanbul. Crazy, I know, but this is the first time I’ve come home from Turkey in well over 12 months without feeling like my heart’s been ripped out all over again. I like coming home and not feeling like that, as much as I still didn’t want to leave, and as much as summer planning is well underway.

The other thing this trip has left me with is an addiction to Starbucks that I don’t think I’ll ever be cured from. We don’t have a Starbucks in our town; I have the shakes to prove it. Costa just ain’t the same.

So now I look like staying put for a few months, until summer decides to grace us with its presence and I can jet off again.

Boo.

Summer – hadi hadi! Can't wait.