In sickness and in health

I'm writing this from my sick bed, purely because I'm bored out of my tree, and can feel the sudden onset of cabin fever looming. I feel I need to communciate with the outside world before I start knawing my own arm or something, whatever crazy people locked in rooms do.

Not that I'm locked in a room specifically.

I do not cope well with being ill, and as much as I love my sleep, the sudden need to drop off every five seconds has become, well, a bit tiring as it happens. I know this is how the body heals, but my god, how boring?!

So I'm incapacitated, with little else to do but stare at Facebook, fall asleep, read, fall asleep, try and write, decide it's crap, sleep, shiver, sleep, have veeeerrry random webcam conversations, sleep, and oh yeah, sleep some more, with a further bit of shivering thrown in for good measure.

All in all, it's been a pretty uneventful few days.

I've also decided that I definitely couldn't work from home all the time, I'd be far too easily distracted, what with crap daytime TV, the lure of Dairy Milk in the fridge (even though right now, I seriously couldn't stomach it - I must be ill), and the temptation of online shopping. That's pretty much what I've been doing, but instead of actually shopping, I've found I get the same hit from browsing, adding stuff to my cart, and then clicking off it and deciding I don't need it. Cheaper and hits the same spot.

Win-win all round.

I tried to write a bit of my book, but I think I've lost my way a bit, in fact to be honest, I think my way with that book's got up and done a runner, because can I hell as like start writing it again in the same way. I tried, I wrote a whole paragraph, read it back and thought 'nah', deleted it and went back to browsing Top Shop's website.

I've been watching the Olympics though, so at least I've done something constructive - been patriotic. I got quite excited when Jess Ennis won gold. She's a local girl and all that, it's the contract to get marginally excited. Well, I tried, then my headache won over and I fell asleep again.

I hope I haven't caught some rare tropical disease, I mean I've not been anywhere particularly tropical lately, other than Sheffield but I don't think you could really count that as a malaria hotspot .... well, unless you count Manor Top, but I seriously doubt it'd be classed as tropical either. Delayed Turkish reaction? Who knows, maybe this is a reaction to coming home and it should be prescribed for me to go back sharpish - for the good of my health of course. I might try that one out, see how far it gets me .... probably as far as the doctors and back again, and no further.

Being bed-ridden does have its advantages though, other than no need for make up or extreme hair styling - plenty of time for day-dreaming, one of my favourite pastimes. I have been indulging in past memories (not always so great for me), and future hopefuls, which pretty much consist of happy, happy days. It's a bit like cosmic ordering, and I'm hoping it works along the same lines, worth a try anyway.

So now I will go back to my sick bed, sniffle, sniffle, cough, cough, before I fall asleep again .....

zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

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

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?!