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.

Technical gremlins ...

Life as I know it has ceased to exist ....

My iPhone has died.

It's a disaster on the same scale as the great Wispa shortage of 2008.

What's more worrying is that I actually felt a huge wave of panic when it dawned on me that I was going to be without that valuable lump of plastic for a few days. Seriously, I'm talking a million thoughts running through my head in way too short a space of time, like 'ohmygodwhatifsuchandsuchcalls' - the lack of space indicates that I didn't breathe either.

I've calmed down now, sort of.

Fingers crossed by 7pm on Saturday I'll once again be in possession of my hypothetical left arm, and life will once again be filled with mobile Viber, Facebook and Whatsapp. Phew.

It has got me thinking though, maybe it's just me and really I'm overthinking this completely, but the mass panic I felt for a split second is quite worrying. I mean, what did we do before mobile phones and social networking? We actually spoke to people face to face, do we do that much nowadays?

I suppose I'm at a bit of a disadvantage as a lot of the people I "speak" to on a daily basis aren't in face to face distance, be it a nearby town or halfway across Europe, so for that I have a good excuse, but my reaction was a tad extreme in hindsight. My first thought was that it would be sod's law that in the couple of days I was incommunicable, a message I've been waiting for beyond hope for a month now would appear and get lost in the ether of broken phones. It's not gonna happen, but it would be just my bloody luck for it to happen right at that moment.

I'm ever hopeful, you can't ever accuse me of pessimism.

So now I've stopped hyperventilating, I can concentrate, albeit with a slightly shaky hand thanks to going cold turkey from my beautiful sparkly, pink, phone, on my upcoming weekend. This weekend I will actually have a life. Yes, one of those things that everyone else seems to have but I only find occasionally. I think they call it a social life, but I can't be sure because it evades me somewhat.

My friend is visiting from Norway so I will be venturing out of the house and not returning until after curfew on not one, but two nights. Yes, I know, I'm a rebel. I also fully intend to get completely trollied on overpriced vodka, simply because I can. Yes, I know, I don't drink in this country, I save that gem for getting high-pitched in Turkey, but I ain't going easternly for another 8 weeks and this girl needs to be numb, forget, and to feel good for a few hours at least. There's been a few too many tears lately for my liking, it's time to smile a little, for one weekend at least - before I go back to being friend-less because everyone from the 'Shire has abandoned me. 

Happy days.

With friends like these ...

What a week.

Uneventful is not a description I could use.

Following on from last week's completely depressing blog post, you'll be pleased to know I've become pro-active. I'm no less fed up, well maybe a bit, but I'm using this to power me on and I have a plan. Yes, a proper one, like the ones they have in films that ALWAYS work, without fail. This one will work too, because it's awesome.

So this week I have worked my rather sizeable arse right off. My plan is to work every hour god sends for the next year and save, save, save! So this time next year I will probably be hideously lacking in sleep and essential nutrients, but things will be better, and that will be worth losing a little sleep for.

Something slightly less positive has occured this week. Well, I say this week, it's actually been coming for a while but seems more pronounced at the moment.

Okay, deep breath.

Basically, yeah I've been a little down recently, and because of that I've needed my friends. Most of whom haven't been there.

I say 'most' because some have, and for that I'm grateful - and thank you, it means the world.

But those that haven't ... well, true friends?

I'm thinking not.

It might sound selfish, but really it's not. I understand people have their own lives and commitments, but it seems a common trend that you find a guy, or girl, and suddenly you disappear off the face of the planet and forget everyone that was there before. My problems and wants might seem immature to you, simply because it's not what you want, but bear in mind that your life isn't what I want either, yet I'm still there for you no matter what, and probably always will be.

I have to say that outloud, because it's been churning me up for a couple of weeks. I'd say it to anyone it might concern's face too, but will probably never have to, because I never see them anymore.

Anyway, onto a lighter note.

I'm going back to my second home again in eight weeks. Yep, I'm heading out to sample the winter delights and see what that brings - probably not frostbite like I'd get if I stayed here. I hate New Year normally, I find it such a let-down, so hopefully this one will be different, and spending it in a place I love will be pretty amazing. It's going to be weird though, so many people I associate with the place won't be there and most of it will be closed, but I get to party the night away with my girls, so really, I can't complain. Bring on the Efes.

Moving on, and it seems I've found a modern day, wannabe Mr Grey.

Before you get all excited, I highly doubt he's actually a patch on the Grey dude, I just think he talks the talk, erm, quite graphically. Please don't ask me how I got myself into this palava, half the time I never know myself. There was no alcohol involved either, which is worrying in itself.

Basically, picture the scene - Saturday night, freezing cold, snuggled up on the sofa in fluffy bed socks, very unflattering PJs, a massive hoodie and not a scrap of make up. A text comes ... 'are you horny?' .... Er no, I'm watching X Factor.

Is it me or is this variation of flirtation just downright weird? I might be missing something, I just don't get it. I'm not feeling the love, I have to say.

Instead, I'm going to continue the next week in the same vein as the last one - work my arse off again, try not to think about a certain situation that is causing me a bit too much upset than it ever should've, dodge increasingly sexually-explicit texts and look forward to the weekend, when my friend is coming to visit from Norway. Nicky is going out and Nicky is going to PARTY.

Well, probably until about half ten, when I decide it's too cold, my feet hurt and I'm tired.

Oh the joys of the big 3-0.

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!

Option eliminated

I think I've found my balls.

Not literally thank god, but metaphorically.

I'm not entirely sure if blogging about this right now is entirely sensible, considering this little incident only occurred about an hour ago and I'm still absolutely FUMING, but blog about it I will, because I can, so there.

I am sick and tired of men thinking they can pick me up and put me down whenever they see fit, playing with my mind in the process, making me smile for a couple of days, before whipping the carpet out from underneath my feet and deciding that there's something better over their shoulder, plunging me back into boredom and slight unhappiness. In this case, that something better would be a statuesque Russian to get engaged to.

I am not a statuesque Russian, in case you hadn't noticed.

I will never be a statuesque Russian, and quite frankly at this moment in time, I never want to set eyes on another statuesque Russian as long as I live.

I am done.

I am not falling for it again, I'm worth more than an option, in fact dammit, I could give the statuesque Russian a serious run for her money, but quite frankly I can't be arsed, because what's the point?

I shouldn't have to compete, so I'm not going to. I've cut myself from the equation, you can't have both. Or even six or seven, because there's probably more too.

What a lucky, lucky girl, eh? Such a trustworthy dude she's found to spend the rest of her life with. I'm more interested in finding someone with whom I'm the ONLY one, and not one of many, even if that does mean being on my own for a bit longer, or possibly even forever the way things are going.

Is it ever going to happen for me?! Just once?!

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.