Prahaha

yeah it's been a while. I'm guessing I oughta change the name of my blog now.

So here I am safely ensconced back in Prague. But it has been a battle. First of all my job turned out not to be the job I hoped it would be. After accepting the position and resigning from Vodafone, with my life in boxes and the contract on my apartment anulled, my new employers then decided to demote me and cut my pay. Before I even set foot in the building. Then even worse shocks were to come. The busy account I was supposed to be working on turned out not to be so busy. When my wages finally did come I found that they had misinformed me about the 'net amount' I was supposed to get, and I significantly worse off, like a months rent worse off.

I did consult lawyers but because I'd signed the contract there was not a lot could be done. Dumb ass.

So after a lot of stress I have tried to become zen with this shakey, sloppy and at times downright dishonest introduction to the company. In real terms it is still not a bad job. And it is not an awful wage, but it is not a wage I would have moved back for.

However in this economic climate I am stuck between a rock and a hard place, and I have not been here long enough to show them my stellar skills and use them as a bargaining chip.

To cut a long story short, I'm stuffed and earning less than I did as a copywriter 3 years ago.

Anyway the plan is to stay here for a year, get some agency experience, and perhaps move back to Turkey, should things with the man work out well.

For the moment I am staying with my friend steve, and will probably continue to do so until such time as my trial period is over on January 1st.

On the bright side though, I lobbied for more work and got to work on some fun things like an energy drink and vaginal infection cream.

I should also be taking over the O2 account soon. So back to the exciting world of telcoms.

So I'm here. Not entirely happy but not entirely miserable either. Rather tired of fighting and endless negotiations with a company who I don't believe are malicious, just slightly incompetent.

I'm also glad that I didn't sign up for a rather smashing penthouse apartment this week. That would have left me really screwed! I am now looking at more modest little abodes.

ho hum.

Fond farewells in the house from hell

So i've had a vaguely action packed week. First of all the lovely Klara visited me from Budapest for 3 days. We spent a lot of time eating fish and wandering about. On at least two evenings we stayed in and watched DVD's. We were simply too tired.

On Saturday I held The Last Showdown at La Casa De La Cucaracha. I had 10 or 15 people over for drinks, and we managed to consume enough to float a battleship.


Have you ever noticed that everyone always brings a bottle of red and then drinks nothing but white?

I wonder how many parties these poor unloved full bodied reds have been passed around, sitting jauntily on the kitchen sideboard, trying to look their best in the hope that someone might pick them up and then sighing in disappointment as they prepare for yet another cab ride across town the following Saturday night. Actually sounds like a few women I know.

Today the international movers came to give me a quote. They will remove my stuff on Wednesday. In between that I have a string of customs paperwork to clear including getting lawyers to notarize documents, packing, going to utility companies and cutting off my services. I also have to go into Vodafone this afternoon to finalise everything.

Now I am starting to get a little sad about leaving Turkey and am pondering all of the things that I am going to miss about the place. The friends, the food, the sea, the friendliness, the weather...

My pest infested palace, however, seems to be aware that I am leaving and is acting with all the spite of a malevolent child. Suddenly wardrobe doors have started falling off their hinges, radiators have sprung leaks, bizarre mould spores (the like of which I have never seen) have appeared, paint and plaster has started to fall off the walls in great chunks, windows now won't shut properly, electrical appliances have started to make odd noises. And I swear I saw a cockroach the other night.

To top it all, this morning men started demolishing the abandoned house opposite. And after demolition will come building. So its a probably a good time to be leaving.

When I move to Prague I am going to have a shiny new flat. NEW I tell you. With nothing previously touched by human hand. With big shiny clean appliances that work.

This morning, aside from trying to fix the wardrobe doors, I found myself impregnating ladies sanitary towels with insect spray and putting them in all my wardrobes and suitcases (thanks for the tip Paul) in an attempt to stop the buggers following me. If the adverts on TV are anything to go by, leagues of cockroaches will suddenly find themselves able to roller blade, sing and wear white trousers with abandon no matter at what stage they are in their cycle.

I am waiting for His Royal Hairiness to tell me when he will be coming to Istanbul this week from the Cappadocia. Aside from the TV series he will also be acting in a movie next month. He plays a traditional Muslim man. There is a sex scene. He will be naked and has been studiously growing his armpit hair for the role. Apparently I am going to the premier. I'm not quite sure how I feel about seeing my chap snogging another woman in front of millions.


Oh and for your amusement, please check out the details of the 'muffmatic' I have recently had installed. Click on the pic to make it larger....

Under the radar

When I was a girl of about 8 years old I remember having a discussion with a friend about what we would be doing in the year 2000. The grand old age of 24 seemed awfully old. And awfully far away. My friend wanted to be an air hostess, so she could travel. I wanted to be an international business woman with a brief case who flew on planes so that I could travel and people like my friend would have to bring me coffee.

She ended up working the scene, having a selection of rich fiancees and travelling the world. A hostess of sorts. This weekend I ended up in business class with a laptop case going to see my clients. Actually not a business woman at all but having a lovely fantasy in my head.


Having woken up at 3am British time, after not much sleep due to nerves, barking dogs and men banging their ramadan drums in the early hours, I travelled for 9 hours door to door. By the time I actually met my new colleagues at noon I was having difficulty stringing coherent sentences together. Needless to say that at that ungodly hour I had not taken advantage of any free champagne on my flight.

We were checked into The Hiltons executive suite at canary wharf, on a package that entitled us to free booze and food until 11pm. I managed one free glass of wine the entire trip. Nor could I take advantage of my handsomely sized bath tub, I was too frightened that I'd fall asleep and drown.

The same night we had to attend the advertising agencies 60th anniversary party. Not their 23rd anniversary party as previously thought. My dreams of dancing girls and dashing men in black polo neck sweaters were soon dashed. In fact my expectations of food were sorely disappointed. Maybe the dancing girls and dashing men had retired into the toilets to do cocaine and had taken copious amounts of sandwiches with them? So on little more than a cocktail sausage in the previous 30 hours, a smattering of sleep and with raging PMT, you can imagine that I was slightly perturbed when my colleagues (who had told me it was a 60's fancy dress party) arrived in the hotel lobby wearing black cocktail dresses and I arrived looking like I fell out of Ghandi's bum. I used to have nightmares about that sort of thing when I was at school. They came true.

I think I hid it well enough though.

Again, the free wine flowed and I barely felt capable of drinking any of it. Not because I was looking at my dress, but through exhaustion. Where's the fun in that!?

One highlight was meeting my friend Gill, now in the motherly way, for coffee in Oxford street and realising that there was someone who probably felt more tired than me... although she did have that pregnancy bloom thing going on so carried it off rather well.

My dreams of fancy executive meals and first class living have been shattered. All I wanted for most of the week was an empty meeting room I could sleep under the table in and a couple of egg and cress sandwiches.

The last day was another all day meeting, which I had to leave early to get to the airport, only to find that the computer system controlling the radar in the whole of the south of england was down and all flights were cancelled. We were booked into a rather dubious airport hotel, full of business men from Milton Keynes, The sort of place that you would never want to pass a UV light over the curtains or bed spreads or else you'd never sit down without fear of getting pregnant. I kept expecting someone to jump out and say 'aha!' a la Alan Partridge. It was full of tossers. I had a couple of drinks and went away and hid in my smelly room. And sat on a Marks and Spencers carrier bag.


Anyway when I did finally get the plane the flight was lovely. Although I swear the woman serving me coffee sniggered. Had a great weekend with BF. Was going to go to cappadocia with him while he is working this week but we both realised that it would be a waste of time, because I'd just be sitting in a hotel room by myself when I should be doing stuff here.

It looks like I'll be leaving Turkey on 9th October. I have to start working for Ogilvy from Istanbul as of 1st October. I also have Klara visiting, which I am really looking forward to, and a whole host of paperwork and loose ends to tie up and people to say goodbye to.

So I may well be under the radar this week, and not for the first time.

Detoxing

No not detoxing my life silly. But purging all the crap from my desk at work, my cupboards, those random bags you lug around with you that are full of nothing but 5 year old receipts, lighters from restaurants in Greece that you never even went to, old ball point pens, birthday cards, bits of ribbon, drunkenly scrawled email addresses and business cards of people you can't remember and electrical cords for appliances you have long since binned. Or is that just me?

Anyway I removed 10kg of it from my life. I kid you not. I've travelled the world with backpacks lighter than that.

On Monday I go to London for some brand training for my new job. Ouuuu. On one of the evenings it is agency's 23rd birthday party. And it is a 60's theme. I dunno how I feel about that. I expected the theme from a creative agency to be somewhat more... well creative. I mean shouldn't it really be an 80's party? Anyway with nothing but the bits and bobs I had lying around in my cupboard I have created a wonderful ensemble. Well the bits and bobs and the 40 quid dress and the 100 quid pair of boots.

But the boots will last for years. Really. Because they have grips. AND heels. Do you know how hard it is to find that combination? For some reason all the makers of 'winter boots' seem to forget the fact that they are producing shoes for WINTER and that it might SNOW or that the streets might be a tad SLIPPY. I have actually been on the look out for high heeled boots with grips for 4 years now. I kid thee not. In Prague, with its hills, and 8 month winter and silly stupid cobble stones, it is even harder than anywhere in the world to procure anything but the smoothest soled spikiest heeled shoes. Meaning that, to avoid certain death, your only choice is manly lumberjack boots. I swear when I rule the world I really am going to get that place concreted. Or arrest the Bata family for crimes against women.

Work drags on. I have tomorrow, then three days in London, then I get back and have 2 days to work and then it's Byram, the feasting season after Ramadan where everyone who has pretended they haven't been eating, eats even more!

And that's the end of my rather unillustrious career at Vodafone. When I left Vodafone Czech I was sad. Because I was there for 5 years, because I was part of Oskar mobile which was a pretty goddamn cool place to work. I feel absolutely no emotional attachment to the Turkey branch at all. Rather than roaming the corridors reminiscing, I am prowling the staircase like a caged animal looking for an escape route. I don't even want a goodbye dinner or any of that faux bollocks. A refund on all the money I was instructed to spend on managers presents might be nice though. Especially since most of them couldn't even be bothered to say hello. Yes they actually forced you to 'donate' based on your managerial level. Usually about 30 quid, which I thought was a damn cheek since I didn't receive a thing on mine. I could have bought more boots!!!

I just bought the bf his birthday present for Saturday. I am still yet to receive one from him (there seems to be a bit of a theme developing here). However as I was purchasing it the dishy guy in the store amused me by trying everything on so I could see what it looked like, which is a first. I suspected he was gay, but he kept trying to ask me out - not actually an indication of not being gay in my experience. But he was REALLY insistent. And even gave me a discount and scolded me for not asking for one, as you are supposed to in Turkey. But worryingly he made a point at looking at the name on my credit card. I was cyber stalked for a while by a guy from the grand bazzar for similar reasons. Which was idiotic really considering his photo is on facebook, I knew where he works and he knows I had a Turkish boyfriend.

Still it's nice to be chatted up. Lord knows it never happens in Prague.

A mother scorned

Italian mums have a reputation for being a little 'protective' of their sons. Well let me tell you that Italian mothers are kittens in comparison to the formidable force of a Turkish woman and her male offspring.

In Turkey it is often said that you don't marry the man, you marry the family. It is tradition in Turkey, that when a man marries he must provide a house and all of the furnishings in it. So before the wedding the grooms mother takes him out and selects the couch, bed and colour scheme of your new marital home. And you'd better pray that his Uncle Ali doesn't own a cheap used furniture store. Upon marriage you are expected to call his mother 'mother' even if you have a perfectly good one of your own.

Bf's mum is no exception and I had already been forewarned by his friends that she had stopped at least two of his marriages from going ahead. Also he is the only child and his mum a widow who lives with her unmarried sister. You can imagine. There's an awful lot of protective love poured onto this 36 year old bachelor. You also only introduce a woman to your mother if you have intentions of marriage. Something that I am trying to learn to sit comfortably with.

But I figured out a strategy. It's amazing how far a bit of flattery about a mothers housekeeping skills can take you.
Yes I can cook, but she must have taught her son well because he is an exceptional cook
Yes I can iron, but I'm not very good at it, well not as good as her - how does she fold his shirts so neatly?



Those who know me may find this slightly hillarious.


As an independent self efficient person who has supported herself alone pretty much since the age of 17 I can't help but cringe a little as I write it. But I think of it more as an exercise in sociology and politics. If I can convince a Turkish mother that I am capable of looking after her precious son, I can probably rule the ottoman empire. AND not even have to iron the emperors clothes to boot.

Anyway other BIG news. I am moving back to Prague. I have landed the job as creative director at a major advertising agency where I will be in charge of the British Airways account, which means I'll be doing the creative for the print and internet advertising for 27 countries. This is like a shit hot position. This is like the dogs bollocks of a job for me. When I was in college at 16 I had 3 dreams. One was to be a journalist, the second an underwater photographer and the third to make up advertising.

As the fat man once sang: Two out of three ain't bad.

I'll be gone within the month. With a little trepidation.

As kafka once wrote 'beware the old crone she has claws' by that he referred to 'mother Prague'. He also said that the only way to get prague out of your system was to build two fires, one at Prague castle and one at Vysehrad and burn the whole place to the ground. A group of american artists even once made a low budget film called 'rexpatriots' about expats who tried to escape prague but always ended up returning.

It seems the old crone has hooked me again. I have spent many of my formative years in this city. Its the first foreign country I ever lived in, at the age of 19. I survived a lot including carbon monoxide poisoning, the subsequent death of a flat mate, homelessness and associations with the most unsavoury of characters.

However, I was always absolutely bloody determined never to call on my parents for any sort of assistance no matter what happened. So while other people would have turned and ran to the bosoms of their families, I stayed and did a lot of growing up.

My second encounter was on better terms, with a job as a copywriter, a decent flat, old friends, a more mature attitude (well I was in my mid 20's anyway). But soon I found the carpet whipped from under me again with the death of a parent, the loss of a true love (if unrequited love can indeed be true) and slightly too fond a penchant for crap czech wine.

Prague, perhaps, is the toughest mother in the world. But she always sends you back into the foray a little older, a little wiser and infinitely much better prepared. I can't help thinking, in the most romantic of senses, that she knew things weren't working out for me here and decided to call me back to give me another good bloody talking to.

Anyway, whatever personal crises the world decides to heap upon me within the next few years, I hope that at least my job pans out. I could do with a bit of pocket money as a treat because I sure as shit have done my chores.

Wish me luck!

The man with the golden drum

It is ramadan right now. This doesn't really mean much except that the Turks, although they still continue to eat in my office, are slightly more pious than usual. It also bloody means that every morning at 4am a man with a big golden drum stands outside the bedroom window of my cockroach infested flat and bangs a great big drum for half an hour, to remind the Turks, who are already gorging themselves during the day, that they ought to get up and eat before sunrise, because its ramadan. And thats important. Even though when I ask the guys in the office they all look slying to one side, avoid eye contact and say that they 'have a relationship with god in their own way'. Also I swear the man in the wine shop tutted at me this evening when I bought a bottle of wine, which, btw, was so shit I had to pour it down the sink. Coincidence? I'm not so sure.

Cockroach infested flat? Yes I am back in it again. And it is still infested. Well only in the downstairs ensuite. I could be staying at my boyfriends, but after a major argument on the eve of my birthday which resulted in me spending the entire next day sobbing into a bottle of wine, pride prevents me from moving back.

I am, however, going to Prague tomorrow for a job interview with an ad agency. And I am praying that I get it, because after this last 3 months of hell I feel the urge to run away. And it is a pretty smart job.

However if that doesn't happen I will bite the bullet and either try and make a go of it here or return to London.

I won't, however, work for bloody vodafone turkey. Honestly I cannot stand the corporate political bollocks here, teamed with the unenthusiasm to make any sort of change.

The guys are okay. Most of them have at least studied outside the country. I went to my bosses leaving party today. I was speaking to one male colleague who asked me if I didn't find all this travelling around unsettling. I had to admit that I have started to feel an urge to set down roots somewhere. 'Perhaps its because this company is in such turmoil?' he asked. 'you can't feel settled when this whole company and your job is shaky'. I am inclined to agree.

Ah well. lets see what this week brings. Looking forward to prague, although with some trepidation. Am I really ready to go back, and will it be on different terms this time?

So bloody bored

Of stumbling from problem to problem. I just get one damn thing sorted out and it sets off a chain reaction and 1000 other things go wrong. I won't inflict my boredom upon you. Suffice to say that now the rats and roaches are sorted it has been discovered that the whole flat needs to be replumbed and a temporary job finally expired and has resulted in my bathroom flooding every time I shower. And there's more.... so much more. But I can't even be bothered to tell you about it. But I just spent 4 hours murdering the turkish language with an electrician.

One thing in life is reassuringly reliable - just when you think things can't get shitter, they inevitably do. The guy who sometimes gives me a lift to work has bought a scooter. Here they have the same blaze attitude to road safety as the greeks and spanish, no helmets, shorts.... I decided that at this particular juncture in my life I'll just get taxis to work instead.

I moved in with bloke temporarily. He asked me to stay living with him. I moved out. He likes me at the moment, no point in ruining it :-)

Anyway the rash I broke out in (either as a result of stress or a severe allergy to the roach poisoning) has almost gone, so at least I am not scaring the neighbourhood children anymore. Its still summer. At least my sea view isn't broken. Somewhere out there is a man that isn't scared of me. I have a rather nice shoe collection and enough cash to buy the occasional bottle of vino. S'uppose it ain't all bad really.

You get what you deserve

So after a week of hell in which I have been invaded by all manner of pests which crawl, scuttle and fly, you would imagine that I was feeling a little world weary. Whilst my friends and boyfriend were off cavorting on the Bospherous this week, I have been on my hands and knees scooping rat shit out from under the cupboards in the 32 degree heat, cursing every deity known to man, and a few unknown ones too.
My apartment looks like a Chinese laundromat. I have had to halt washing insecticide sprayed clothing as I have run out of places to hang things. And trust me I can be very inventive with a bit of string and a few pegs.

So happy was I when chappy offered to come round and plug up my pipes with expanding foam along with our Guatemalan friend Paul who is quite good at man type household activities. However the men had a discussion and it was decided that boyfriend alone should come and rescue this not so fair maiden from her plight. This was more than slightly alarming. Never trust a man with any kind of gun who has never been trained to use it... even if it only fires foam. I had to show him what an alternator was last week on his car. He is not exactly what you'd call 'handy around the house'.

Anyway, the evening turned into a comedy of errors, mainly on account of me being premenstrual, which every woman will confirm is Mother Natures cruelest curse. It not only makes you extraordinarily clumsy, it suddenly robs you of the sane rationality one needs in order not to run howling from the room when you bang your head, scrape your back, knock things over and generally damage everything around you,

So when all of the above happened, it was 11pm at night, I hadn't eaten, I'd spent 10 hours at work and 4 cleaning up rodent crap, and then we discovered that the man with the untrained foam gun had irreversibly over filled my pipes with expanding foam causing my entire kitchen to flood, you can image that I was not a happy bunny. But I managed to keep it together... just.

This week has been a little overwhelming. Not only have I endured a cockroach infestation, a rat infestation, a wasps nest, spent every night cooped up alone cleaning and worrying about being eaten alive at night (so not much sleep) I had also learned that I must seek new employment. And then my kitchen flooded. It was already on the edge of being more than I could take in my premenstrual state. And my eyes did get a little watery, and I did slightly struggle to stop my bottom lip from trembling.

My boyfriend is an extraordinarily brave man for one so short. Because this is when he decided it would be a good time to take the piss out of me being so upset.

You can tell that I like him because I only actually threatened to kill him the once. And I didn't hit him or anything. But I won't lie. The thought did cross my mind. I think my exact words were 'listen honey, either I cry or you die but either way this frustration is coming out somehow.'

He took it quite well I think, And even bought me dinner afterwards.

Next week I meet 'the mother'. Turkish mothers are fiercely protective of their boys, a little like Italians I suppose. Now it is my turn to fear for my life. But I cunningly asked Jenn to bring over some posh marks and spencers biscuits with her the other week which I hope will sooth the heart of any woman. Even if I did threaten to castrate her only son.

House of horrors

So having dealt with the cockroaches and wasps the size of Kansas, I set about cleaning my flat. It was already 'clean' having just had the slightly ineffectual and terminally lazy cleaning lady in on Friday, but the thing about spraying your house with toxic chemicals is that it can have some untoward side effects. And so the exterminator told me I had to wash every item of clothing, every towel, every cup, plate, saucer.... in fact anything I may come into close contact with.

The problem being that I have 3 wardrobes full of clothes (and six sizable drawers) one massive cupboard full of bed linen, not to mention my coat cupboard. It will take me weeks.

The first thing I did was unscrew the rusting bin unit under my kitchen sink and toss it into the garbage. It had no lid so it must have been like an all you can eat buffet for the roaches. It was then that I noticed the rat droppings behind the sink unit. Hundreds and hundreds of rat droppings, a small mountain of rat droppings. I swear I saw a miniature Turkish flag planted at the summit. I can tell they are from rats because they are massive. Either that or I have a small herd of dwarf mongoose living in my piping. I can not tell if they are new droppings or old droppings but the sheer number is enough to make me feel queasy.

The second thing I did was pack a bag. My boyfriend now refuses to stay at my flat and has demanded I stay with him. BTW his TV series was screened last week and it has received top ratings from the critics. It also had a share index of 25 which means it was watched by a quarter of all people watching TV that night... so thats nice.

Next on the list is to fire the cleaning lady. Having had to wipe down all the cupboards and surfaces myself, it has become apparent that she really is a first class useless toerag who merely squirts a bit of furniture polish in the air before I return home to give the impression that she has cleaned.

Tomorrow I will buy a rat trap and see if I can catch one of the buggers. After which I'll call in the second set of exterminators. The boys are going to buy me some polyurethane foam and plug the holes.

And so the grim discoveries at the house of horrors continues...

Anyone fancy popping round for dinner?

chemical attack

So I woke up, went for a run, found it was too hot to run, went home, found the water had been cut. There were more wasps in my kitchen. Decided to empty the food cupboard and found roach droppings. Waiting for pest control and staying at a friends house. Hungry, sticky and decidedly pissed off!

Waspish

My father once said that there is no problem in the world which can’t be sorted out with a 12 bore shot gun and half a pound of semtex. He was a wise man indeed. But it’s a bit of an extreme solution for a chipped fingernail.

Most women have a problem solving tool kit. And it doesn’t usually consist of much. It’s exactly the reason why DIY and hardware stores started reporting losses 2 years before the recent recession began. As more women have started to live alone it has become apparent that you don’t need a lathe, a Bosch drill, 2 tins of hammerite and an angle grinder to put up a curtain rail. A solid wedge heeled shoe, a pot of clear nail varnish and a metal nail file will solve most household conundrums.

The days of the power tool man is obsolete. However there are times in a girl’s life when she wants to be rescued, throw her hands up in the air and scream like a… well… girl. I just escaped an hour and a half long ordeal which involved me being trapped in the kitchen by a wasp. Not your common or garden weedy British wasp, which hovers politely near your picnic and seems to ask ‘excuse me old bean, mind if I have a nibble on your cup cake? I won’t be long, honest, sorry for the inconvienience.’ No these are hard core mentalist fundamentalist Turkish wasps. They’re as big as your thumb and they live in my extractor fan in my kitchen. (somewhere near the cockroach nest I suspect). I first encountered these things in Oman, where I saw the sting on my friends arm rise to half the size of a tennis ball. Getting jabbed by one of these things is no joke I can tell you.

So this menatalist wasp got into my living room and I was too frightened to go anywhere near it. So I decided to put my entrapment into good use and tackle the nest in my extractor fan. This involved all kinds of forms of wasp torture. First I switched the fan on. That pissed them off slightly. Luckily the air throws them outside and not inside. Then I decided to spray DVT (pesticide) into the extraction fan vent. This is the stuff that I think gives you cancer and deformed babies or something. Then they got really mad. I heard once that smoke drives away wasps so I put some paper in a baking tin and set fire to it under the extractor fan to cause some smoke and drive them out. But the pesticide is a little flammable so I was a few minutes trying to sort that out. The wasps didn’t seem too bothered by the smoke. Luckily there was no water cut today.

Then I tried switching the fan off for a spell, to lull them into a false sense of security, and then switching it on again really quickly. But that soon got boring. Luckily I’d decided to save some of my arsenal for the wasp in the living room, which was good as I was running out of Pimms, and ran in, nuked the bugger, and maneuvered back to the kitchen to watch it’s imminent death. But like I say, these are no ordinary wasps and I was forced to watch for 20 minutes as it paddled and splashed though the pools of toxic chemical seemingly unhinered. This stuff stops a cockroach in half a second, and they are supposed to be able to survive nuclear wars. What kind of goddamn mutant freaks are these wasps?

I summoned every ounce of courage and after a few false starts, during which it started to fly and I retreated squealing back to the kitchen I finally decided to tackle the beast.Covering my extremities in dish cloths and coats I managed to advance enough to smash it with a newspaper. The Sunday Telegraph no less. It didn’t even start limping.

It was time to get serious. And with the aid of some super hold toni and guy hairspray, I finally managed to slow it down a little. Remind me to double check the ingredients on my beauty products one day. Using a long handled broom I brushed it to the floor and stamped on it. The bugger was still moving. So after a small stomping dance, the kind of which usually signifies the start of an international rugby tournament, I figured I had it licked and with the aid of a bit of tissue tossed it into a watery grave. The damn thing still won’t flush.

Which makes me wonder how on earth I am going to get rid of the stuff in my extraction pipe. But lets face it most women wonder about that at some point in their lives.

On another note, I have been working on a retail communications strategy at work. It has been a long and arduous task, but today was the grand finale…. Presenting it to the regional sales managers, who are reputed to be a bunch of rotwiellers. I don’t mean to blow my own trumpet, but I will, I will, cause they were so impressed with the action plan they practically rolled on their backs and purred.

Unfortunately it doesn’t make my position much more secure. I have a lovely new boss who is very impressed with my work, but when I tackled her about my future today she admitted that in the mid term I should probably look somewhere else, but that she would be happy to help secure me a place in another opco, or even in Vodafone if I can find a niche. Not speaking Turkish is a bit of a problem in the communications business here at my level.

No matter. I appreciate her honesty and helpfulness and as of now am seeking other options.


So if you hear of anything….

type setting

Like most humans, when it comes to the art of men and attraction I have a 'type'. My usual type means I get to indulge in abdominal muscles of steel, pecs you can crush walnuts with and someone who can pass the jam jar off the top shelf because I am never tall enough to reach.

However, instead of crushing walnuts, affairs usually end with me wanting to crush skulls. This is my curse.

I became so tired of this blasted curse, and of men I loved either dying, becoming gay or walking off with some silicon enhanced bint called Bara two years ago, that I decided never to bother again.

As previously mentioned in another blog, a few weeks ago I decided to throw caution to the wind and give having a 'boyfriend' shot. And by the way there is a mostly naked man taking in washing from the balcony of the apartments opposite me right now (not mine), but that's another matter.

Anyhoo, I met this chap. Absolutely not my type. For one he has a beard. I HATE facial hair. Two, he is slightly diminutive, wearing heels puts me on the same level. He hates sports. He hates roughing it, he isn't much of a traveller.

I went on a date with him, absolutely expecting the worst and never expecting to see him again.... 4 dates later after sitting up till 4am laughing my ass off, I find myself still going on dates with him.

In less than half an hour Jenn Green, my best friend from Canada will arrive. Tomorrow we will go to Capadocia, a place with beautiful phallic rock formations where said chap is filming a sort of Turkish Sopranos type series in which he is one of the lead characters.

Already he has arranged a great hotel for jenn and I to stay in. Vegetarian picnics for me, a guided tour of the area for us complete with driver for when he is working, a driver from the airport and evening entertainments. I have to confess to being quietly impressed.

On wednesday all of his friends took me out, while he was away, to a private concert of some Turkish latino singer on an island in the middle of the Bospherous.

Usually when a guy arranges anything for me it is an interflora delivery to say how sorry he is for some hideous fuck up he has committed.

Who knows how this will turn out, but you can be sure that there will probably be some hilarious 'my man turned out to be a satanist/child murderer/ wacko/woman going through a post transexual operation' posts to come.

I am too old to be too excited about relationships, but I imagine the tragi-comic ending will make for a few good stories down the pub one day. I will keep you informed.

Bitter sweet Britain

Cold, cold cold. That kind of damp cold that seeps into your bones. The kind of cold that makes your nose constantly dribble and your joints ache. That’s British summer time for you.

Going back to England was a bitter sweet and rather damp experience.



Sweet because I saw all my old colleagues and friends, one of whom has just taken up a newspaper editorship in Bahrain. Sweet because I got to spend the first night out with my two sisters in 6 years. Sweet because my 3 year old nephew has stopped eyeing me up with suspicion and now appears to actively like me. Actually, as he was jumping up and down on my head one morning at 7.30am as I desperately tried to pretend I was asleep, he informed me: ‘I only hurt you because I love you auntie Maie.’My other nephew, a star rugby player and a supremely intelligent 11 year old, told me I was beautiful (that isn’t why I think he is intelligent… they did tests and stuff). That made me very happy. One morning I was passing through a village with my sister’s brood. The rain was just holding off, people were playing cricket on the village green, a procession of steam engines trundled past. All I needed was a glass of Pimms….. perfect.

However the trip was also slightly bitter. Bitter because England really is entering a recession. Food has gone up by 30 percent in a matter of months. It’s 4.50 GBP for a bloody sandwich now. Petrol has risen so much that ambulance and fire brigade services have cancelled all staff overtime because they can’t afford to fill their vehicles. My friends and family struggle with taxes rent and mortgage payments. Some are already seriously facing the prospect of loosing their homes…. And the recession has barely started.

I found an old friend had been going through a hard time and felt desperately sad that I hadn’t been there for her.



But what left the bitter taste was the wedding I attended. This chap has been a dear friend of mine for ten years. Our gang hung out together every weekend for 5 years. We danced, I supported all of his Djing efforts, we all had brunch together every Sunday. I even lived with some of the gang. So when I got an invite for the evening reception, I understood that with finances being the way they are in Britain, it was something that he just had to do. And I really just wanted to see him and share any part of the happy occasion I could.


What I didn’t realise was, that our entire gang, barring the only other female member of it and I, had all been invited for the full shebang, no matter how tenuous their links to the groom or how infrequent their contact, along with whatever +1's they'd cobbled together. He spoke to me for less than 5 minutes the whole evening.

I can't help but feel a little hurt. Literally I travelled 1000 miles to congratulate someone and didn't even get offered a cup of tea or 3 minutes of their time.

On the bright side, when we returned to the other female outcast's house, we found we were locked out and I had to break and enter in a pair of heels at 3am through the smallest window. Burglary can be fun.


Oh yeah. And I went on a few ‘dates’. Well we have seen each other on a sort of frequent basis for food. But it will probably all go wrong, so just wait for my next rant about how all men are bastards and you’ll find out for sure….

shopping and other injuries

Today saw me engaged in the third most painful experience a woman must endure next to waxing or a date with some fugly who looked hot when you gave him your phone number just after you started that second bottle of sauvignon the night before - and that is bikini shopping. I tried to soften the blow by going into a fancy smanshy store that my friend warned me was a tad expensive, well let me tell you, I tried a few on and 150 quid price tags do not a super model make.



Although the cubicles sported the same harsh fluorescent lighting of your more reasonably priced high street stores, what they lacked was ample mirrorage, meaning that you could never quite catch the full magnitude of your ample behind no matter which way you twisted. I wonder if they sell more bikinis that way? It’s just dishonest. I’d rather know if my cheeks looked like two puppies wrestling in a sack thank you very much. Then I’d buy a matching sarong.



Anyway, after having my nether regions ripped to shreds by plastic security and laminated price tags (why do they put them THERE?), I managed to spy a style I liked and then hot foot it down to the store across the mall which sold exactly the same bikinis (minus the swavorski guarantee of excellence) and pick something up for a quarter of the price. Wunderbar.



Then I came home, relaxed and started to get ready for my first night out in Istanbul with music I actually like, drum and bass, as oppose to remixes of Sezen Aksu (some old has been crooner the Turks are obsessed with) she’s a bit like Shirley Bassey minus the good voice. Saying that you don’t like her is like criticising Ataturk and is liable to be seen as ‘an offence to Turkishness’ and land you in jail.



So I cooked up a storm. I primped and preened. Put on a face pack and got ready for a shower only to find the water is out. Fantastic. Now I have half of the dead sea on my face and a pile of smouldering saucepans in the 30 degree heat.



Luckily I have saved some bottles of water under my sink for just this occasion. I will be clean, but my kitchen may be full of cockroaches when I get back. Ahh it’s the price you pay for beauty. You soon find out your priorities when you have to skimp on water.





I haven’t written for a little while because I have had a visitor. My mum, in fact who I am ashamed to say I have not seen for over a year. This was mainly due to the fact that I couldn’t come home at Christmas because they gave me no time off in between contracts. We had a nice relaxing time. I think I gained two kilos from all the food and I am pretty sure she enjoyed it, so I feel quite happy about that.



Since I started this missive I have also attended a wedding. A Turkish high society one at that. There were many famous people who can’t be that famous because I’ve never heard of them. But then the only Turkish celebrity I have heard of is Sezen Aksu so I’m not the best judge. Lots of military big wigs too.



Anyway whatever I saved on a bikini I managed to blow in almost spectacular style on a dress which was nearly a months rent. Bugger. But I did have the best dress. I managed to drink my weight in wine, dance like a Turk and generally have a good time. For the second time only in my life a man gave me gold. But it was actually to pass on to the bride. In Turkey it is the mans responsibility to fully kit out the house of his bride. So you don’t give toasters and breadmakers at weddings. You give gold. Very civilised.



At some point in the night, possibly after the 25th round of dancing in a circle, waving our arms about and singing ‘hallah hallah hallah’ (which weren’t actually the words but they were close enough), I must have got home. I don’t really remember but it is possible I either played a round of volley ball with a boulder, had a tragic farming accident, or fell up my stairs, because both my wrists are black and blue. I really am not sure how it happened.



I woke up at 6am for work wishing the world had ended and proceeded to work for the next 13 hours until 9.30pm whilst simultaneously trying not to throw up or pass out.

Now finally I am just unwinding before bed where I hope to pass out without causing any more serious injuries to myself or my credit card.

The man who fell to earth

After weeks of British and Czech weather reports taunting me with temperatures well above average whilst Istanbul remained distinctly chilly, I can finally say that summer has arrived. It usually bounces between 24 and 31 degrees. Which suits me just fine.



It was on one of these 30 degree days last weekend that a group of us went to a remote beach for a BBQ. Although the Black Sea was ball shrinkingly cold (mine all but disappeared) and full of jelly fish, we made a brave attempt at swimming anyway.



We were just finishing off the last of our beers when some men dropped from the sky and came to introduce themselves. And I mean that quite literally. Indeed, it was raining men. They did have parachutes and engines attached to their backs but drop they did.



And that’s how I met my new friend Ali. A photographer by trade, who flies around the coast on his para motor, travels to far flung places, goes deep water diving, white water rafting and just about everything else a real man should do in my book. Oh yeah, he is a qualified pilot too. And quite cute.



So I was more than a little excited when he invited me out to dinner. We had a smashing time talking about 2 stroke engines, great photographers, art and politics. He turned out not to be married and, unlike most Turks, had reassuringly large hands. He introduced me to his friends who were also great and we had a right rum old time and even found we had some friends in common. However, Effes beer in the midday sun does skew your judgement a bit and I have to confess that I discovered not so much of a slight age gap, as a whole generation gap. Damn.



I tried the older man thing once before and, I have to say, very much regret frittering away most of my youth on old farts. Never again in my life will it be acceptable to date someone in their early 20’s. But I didn’t know that back then. Ahh youth is wasted on the young.



Anyway I hope to stay in contact. He really is a cool bloke. On the way home the taxi driver asked for sex. There was once a time when I would have jumped out the cab, but if you did that in Istanbul you’d never get anywhere. And then I got home and saw my first cockroach and screamed like a girl before nuking it with every chemical I could get my hands on. Haven’t seen any more before or since so assume I am not on a nest, but guess what I’ll be googling this evening? Always wondered why there were so many cans of half empty bug spray in the cupboards. I think I just increased my carbon footprint to a size 12.



Work is, as usual, unnerving. I was just getting into the swing of things when Martin, my old boss from cz and my current boss here, announced that they had found his Turkish replacement and that he was either moving departments or moving opcos. I have not met the lady who will be taking his place yet but rumour has it that she is one tough cookie. I have been helping a lot with retail communications, and have been adding value, I have to say. The only thing getting in my way of doing a cracking job is the woman who is supposed to be doing it herself. A dinosaur who doesn’t much like the idea of change and has a sleeve full of excuses as to why things don’t get done. But I realised that I quite like doing retail comms. I’m good at it.



Mum comes tomorrow. Unfortunately I do have to go in and work now and then but no matter. We will have a smashing time. Haven’t actually seen her for 18 months which is a total outrage. I’m sure she will love it here.

Flying the flag

I’m not sure when flags stopped being a sign of all things good, and started being the accessory du jour of nutters, like fascist skinheads and Geri Halliwell.


When I was a kid, flags were a good thing and were often accompanied by street parties, cup cakes, jelly and ice cream, meat paste sandwiches, those weird little sausages on cocktail sticks and something called the ‘Queens Jubblies’. Or that’s how it sounded when I was 4 years old anyhow.


They was also a strange group of people who used to plant miniature flags in white dog poo on our estate in Bradford. But maybe that was just a Yorkshire thing.


And then, slowly but surely, flags started shifting in my perception. First they were coveted by nationalists who, my dad told me, didn’t like people like Mr Singh in the shop at the end of our street. This was bad. Mr Singh always gave me tons of free sweets and he always had a nice turban.



Then (probably around the advent of CNN and satellite TV) flags became something that dark angry looking people in far off lands burned and stamped on. In later years I wondered if there was a chain of American flag makers in Bagdhad or Pakistan who got very rich in the 1990’s and retired recently, because you don’t see as much flag burning these days.



But every ones perception shifted. A few years ago when England was good enough to be in the world cup, people decorated the streets of Bedford with the cross of St George, but the council came and took them all down because they said it had ‘racist undertones’ and had upset the Muslim population in the area. I quoted them on this, they then retracted their statement and tried to say that I made the quote up. A slight that still rankles to this day as I prided myself on being quite an honest journalist.



I always thought it was quite sweet in Turkey that they have no shame in being proud of their flag. You can see it hanging everywhere. On special holidays all the skyscrapers in the business district unfurl massive 50 metre long Turkish flags from the side of their buildings. They are very proud of their flag. Turks do tend to have a massive inferiority complex here and so are very touchy about their national identity. You’ll always be treated with kindness and respect as long as you NEVER say anything bad about Ataturk or Turkey in general. One terrible time in 2000 when Leeds were playing Galatasaray here, some Leeds football hooligans decided to entice the Turkish to fight by setting fire to the Turkish flag and wiping their bums with it. Big mistake. Two fans got stabbed to death. I have looked in the press for evidence that these two murdered men were totally innocent and had done nothing wrong but could find naught.



A normal tabloid article would scream that these were ‘two innocent men who had no ties to violence of any sort and were in the wrong place at the wrong time.’ But the papers are strangely quite about their pasts and their connections. They just tell you that one of them was a father. The lack of outrage at their senseless murders could be telling. As is the fact that the Sun newspaper lost 3 million readers overnight and nearly went bust after printing that some Liverpool fans were responsible for the Hillsborough disaster. A faux pas from which it has never recovered and which no paper worth it’s shareholders would ever dare to repeat.



Of course I do not advocate murder. And stabbing anyone is clearly repugnant. But right now a flag is driving me to thinking about other forms of criminal behaviour. Such as vandalism and/or arson.



You know my lovely Bospherous view that I am so in love with? Behold. On Friday morning I woke up to an entirely different kind of vista as a 20 metre long Galatasaray flag was hung down the side of my building. At first I tried to be calm, after all it was a national holiday of sports and children on Monday. But it’s Tuesday and the flag shows no sign of being removed. Now I can only see the Bospherous if I go out on my balcony or stand at the top of my staircase. I was hoping that the fact that it completely obscured the views of 3 other flats might prompt enough complaints to see it removed quickly. But maybe the others like it there because still it flaps. In any case. I will be forced to make a complaint tomorrow to the traditionals (i.e. headscarfed family) two floors above who hung it out and whose view, I might add, is in no way hindered. I hope they do not know I am from Leeds and that I like Fenerbahce. Like I say, flags are usually coveted by nutters.





This weekend was fantastic. So there was a German, a Frenchman, an Englishman, an Australian and a Turkish dog and they all went to Assos, a lovely little town on the Aegean sea. There is no joke there. But we did have a great time. We didn’t do much except take long breakfasts, pootle about, and sunbathe. It was heaven.

Every morning we ate local cheese, olives and an egg dish called menemen and looked out from the terrace at the incredible views of the mountains and sea. I read two books. I also learnt that I cannot make a Turkish male do my bidding (even if he has 4 legs and fur). It was a constant 33 degrees. Summer has arrived. It seems set to be over 30 from here on in.



I finally found a Thai boxing class today and, joy of joys, the instructor speaks English. I start tomorrow. I will be the only female, which isn’t a huge surprise, but I do wonder how the macho Turks will take me. This is a great thing. I need evening sport otherwise I just sit watching the Bospherous, smoking fags, drinking wine and ship spotting. I guess the curtailment of my view spurred me on to get things done.

By the way this was my old view

Toilets, South Africans and green shots.

It seems like quite a while since my last missive. I have been a busy girl, which is always a good thing as we all know that the devil makes wine for idle hands.
The last few weeks have seen me trying to get approval for Madonna promotions, F1 sponsorship madness, putting together a new direct marketing strategy with a woman so dim it’s a wonder she remembers to breathe, as well as trying to initiate a new project involving a Vodafone product from South Africa. Of course I have not thought at all about the possibility of a business trip to Cape Town. No not once. I was also not at all swayed by the 6ft4 vision of lovely rugbyness that came to present to us. Do they all look like that in SA? I thought it was only on the telly and that the SA rugby team had been genetically modified. It’s the first bloke I have seen in months who doesn’t look like he’s been dipped in a bucket of pubic hair. Anyway I was disappointed to note that, when he used his wife’s ID to log onto an account and show us the product, that she was born in 1984. Biatch. It won’t last you know.

I also had some visitors. Pavel Jirat, who flew in from Kuwait, joined by Pavel Zingle and Petra from CZ. Pirat (as we call him) has been living in a dry state for a couple of years now meaning that there is NO alcohol. Not in hotels, not anywhere. And as Czechs drink more beer per head of capita than anyone else in the world, you can imagine that he had quite some catching up to do when he got here. His attempts at smuggling medical grade ether from the local hospital and mixing it with pineapple juice resulted in near blindness. Now he adds yeast to grapejuice and has made a variety of of different wines including a Kuwingon Blanc. He insists I come to visit but I am worried that the Nurofen will cost more than my flight.

So Thursday night appeared to be a race for the Czechs to cram as many pints, shots and Lord knows what else down their throats before closing time. I realised when I was up against forces greater than myself when they started dropping unidentifiable green shots into their pints of beer and necking them in one. I eschewed the shots and bowed out gracefully at about 11 by switching to tea.

The next morning, while they all were unconcious, I tiptoed to work, looking slightly worse for wear, because I had a very important meeting. A few minutes before it was due to start I went to the ladies only to break the lock and find myself trapped in the cubicle with no means of escape. Eventually the cleaning lady came who spoke absolutely no English whatsoever. Note to self, learn how to say ‘help’ in Turkish. So there I sat for quite a while longer until an English speaking colleague happened upon my predicament. She called security who tried brute force, then they called the handiman who started to dismantle the lock only to find that he didn’t have the right tools. Meanwhile the very important meeting that I dragged my sorry ass in for looked in danger of being cancelled due to my non attendance. I suggested, via a messenger, that my boss slide the presentation under the door so we could discuss the project on conference call, but he was too busy pissing himself laughing to consider it seriously. The worst thing was that I was trapped in there for so long that I started to need the loo again but was unable to go, oh irony, because I was afraid they might bust the door open at any moment and a small crowd had gathered to point and stare at the locked toilet door.

By Friday evening, after all that excitement, my guests and I were all too tired to do anything. We went for a nice meal with my boss and his wife, although I barely ate because they forgot my order. I realised that my czech is not as bad as I supposed and actually managed to grasp the nuances of the conversation most of the time. On Saturday we went to the grand bazaar and then to a BBQ at a friends house where we drank very expensive 25 year old rum. And Sunday, after they had all gone I went for a short 10km run, despite buying new fancy trainers to counteract my knee problem and running on the flat, it still started to hurt, will try yoga this week and see if I can cure it.

Next weekend I am off on a trip to Assos, a quaint little Turkish town by the sea with an Aussie, a German, a Frenchman and a Turkish mountain dog called Gin. I am very excited by the prospect.

Pa Pa Praha

So here I am, back on the Bospherous after having the chance to say goodbye to Prague properly. I say properly because last time I left I was so stressed with running around, Christmas, and moving countries - that my goodbyes passed in an exhausting blur. By the time I had had enough sleep to wake up and realise what had happened, I’d already been living in Istanbul for 3 months.

So my oldest and dearest friend Will, the chap who was responsible for me being there in the first place, is leaving for Kiev.
I really should have gone next weekend to catch up with my friends from America who are arriving on the 1st, but I figured that even they can probably locate Istanbul on a world map (with a little help) and can come and visit one day.
Besides it was only appropriate that I should go this weekend. After all, both Will and his girlfriend at the time, Claire, did rescue me from a life of certain misery, working in factories as a receptionist on industrial estates in Bedfordshire. Were it not for them I might well be on my second marriage and fourth kid by a different father. Even worse I’d probably be claiming social security, smoking cheap fags and have no money for nice shoes. But my life took a different turn. And you can rest assured that I am not without family. I treat my shoes exactly like I would my children – I rarely clean them and I lock them in a cupboard at night. At least I can’t be put on the front page of the Daily Mail for cruelty to shoes.

I also got to see my friend Mike, who is currently waging an war against cancer that would make Genghis Kahn proud. And, much as his blog proves, http://virtualvistinghours.blogspot.com , he is an inspiration. A little more tired than usual, but still makes anyone else who has ever had an illness - ever - look like a total wuss. And he is still hairy. I respect that in a man.


Prague was more beautiful than I remembered, but it’s amazing what a spell of hot weather can do. It was dank dark January the last time I left. The women also wear less clothes than I remembered. Much less clothes. At the famous Zizkov beer garden there were more bum cheeks and boobs that you could shake a stick at. But I guess it gives you somewhere to stick your beer if you need to use both hands for fending off the Czech dogs.

I miss the easiness; the chilled out way of life; the sense that ‘anything goes’; the stunning views from no matter where you are; the old friends; the greeness; the river; the relaxed attitude of the Czechs; the clean air; the best public transport system in the world; the village atmosphere of the place; the beer gardens; the architecture and a sense of knowing exactly where you are physically; the ability of Czechs to enjoy the outdoors and their general sportiness. I am also aware that I am probably not using semi colons appropriately, but you can't have everything.

However, I do not miss being constantly tired, the damn difficult language, and the dog poo. All except one I could have sorted out myself with a little effort.

Wendy was, as always, a joy to be with. We never got time to see all the exhibitions we wanted to. But it was very comforting to see her smiley face.


In fact there were quite a few people I wanted to spend more one on one time with but never got a chance. So if you are reading this, I apologise. I much prefer one on ones to massive group events. But time was not on my side. I can’t justify spending loads of time in Prague when there is the mass of beautiful country that is Turkey, Syria, Kabul, and everywhere else that is so convienient to here. It was also sad that so many people I would have loved to have seen have moved on. But better for them I guess in the long run. It’s such a transient city.

Had a bit of a nightmare morning on the way home. Meetings that were supposed to happen didn’t. Took me nearly 25 minutes to finally confirm a taxi. The driver took me on the most traffic clogged route. Got to the airport to find they’d moved my flight to an earlier slot and there were ten, yes TEN, international flights checking in through the same four desks. But was pleased to note that the Czech man sitting next to me on the plane was very cute indeed. Spoke to him, nearly gave him my card, but got too shy at the last minute. Damn.

But all in all, a great weekend. I did nearly cry in the taxi to the airport. It’s the end of a very important and formative period of my life. I first lived in Prague when I was 19 for two years and again when I was 26 for 5 years. Particularly it’s hard with Will, Anna and Liza leaving. It really is like cutting the umbilical cord.

But onwards and upwards. We’ve all grown up a lot. We’ve all lost and gained a lot (in pounds and in pence). But there is nothing quite as tragic as people who stay stuck in a rut and can’t move on. So as lovely as it was to wallow in nostalgia for a few days, I’m very thankful my life has taken this turn. And I’m looking forward to the next episode. I'd write a book about the last fifteen years - but nobody would believe it.

managing management training

This week has seen me on a management training course. Our trainer is a pretty motivational and very snappily dressed diminutive successful Turkish businessman. And he is a showman with a capital ‘ow’. It is possible to sit and listen to this man speak for 5 hours not get bored and leave almost believing that you can shake the world, change your organisation and get your manager to listen to your requirements for personal growth and fulfillment. He is amazing at bolstering confidence.

It reminds me of that magical childhood time when parents try to convince their offspring that they are not gap toothed/big eared/chubby or dim, and then deposit them at the school gates the next morning to endure hours of being called ‘fatty thicky wingnuts’ and have their lunch money stolen.

I can just imagine myself striding into the office tomorrow and telling my bosses that I need one on one personal mentoring from them, that their management style is all wrong and that they need to work with me on their personal failings (which include not giving me more management training from the aforementioned businessman). Not only will my free canteen lunches be seized, but my house, my health insurance and my payroll.

So as great as he is, a percentage of his ideals are really cut from the same cloth as tooth fairies. Yes you can see how they can be profitable, but the reality wears slippers and puts the food on the table.

However I am having a whale of a time. There is not a coffee break which goes by in which our trainer has not failed to mention his Ferarri, his two boats or flash his Phillipe Patek watch with a smooth but practiced flick of the shirt cuff. Although I am not sure who is sadder - him for flashing or me for noticing.

On day one I stood with the boys discussing the prospects of Fenerbahce football team, when he told us of Turkey’s most amazing striker in history who only had size 36 feet. ‘So it shows’ he proclaimed, ‘that size does not matter.’ ‘Who said that then darling?’ I said drawing from my camel light.

On day two I mentioned that I lived in Yenikoy, mentioning this area I have found, never fails to impress the Turks. That’s cause it costs a fortune around here. Said trainer has already offered to pick me up on his yacht from Yenikoy port one day so we can ‘fish and….. sunbathe’. Well just fancy. One wonders if the tanning oil comes from him, the fish or the bottle.

However, being a woman of limited intelligence, I will give him my card at the end of the course, smile sweetly and tell him how much I can’t wait to meet him and his wife for cocktails on the deck, and see if he ever calls (of course not being surprised if he turns up without wife in tow). One thing is for certain, he trains the guys at DHL, Coca cola, Unilever, our competitor Turkcell, and I love contacts. Plus he is entertaining, and I can swim if I have to.

Besides, if my career in politics taught me nothing, it's that when it comes to professional advice, inspiration and information, there is no better santa claus than a married horny old codger. And contrary to the stereotype, you don't even have to sleep with them. Genuinely being interested in what they have to teach you is enough. Massaging ego is their biggest turn on and in exchange you get absolute gems, and if you are clever they not the kind that you lock up in a box.

Turkey and stuff

Many things happened in Turkey over the last week. The government and democracy once again stands on shaky ground. It’s just 8 months since the AK party was returned to power after gaining 47% of the vote following the threat of a coup by the military. The reason being that people suspect that the party seeks to turn Turkey into an Islamic state. The fact that many of its members were formally part of a hardline Islamic party (which was banned) was cited as one of many reasons for this. Then of course the AKP tried to lift the headscarf ban in public buildings and all hell broke loose.
This time instead of waving guns to try and oust the powers that be, the opposition is waving a petition in the constitutional courts, once again trying to cite that the government wants to destroy secularism and should be banned. A decision will be made soon.

Also this week the Olympic torch came to Istanbul. A friend and aspiring photojournalist was there to see the ensuing protests and arrests. Non of which were reported in any of the papers bar one little left wing one.
But the torch is no stranger to controlled press. The torch relay itself was cooked up by Nazi propagandists under Goebbels in preperation for the 1936 Olympics in Berlin. The current Olympics is being directed by the mighty Chinese press machine called: ‘the Capital Ethics Development Office’. Amongst other things, to ensure that China is shown in a favourable light, the office is producing anti spitting, anti swearing and anti litter campaigns. According to the office they have been successful. Spitting is down by 2.41 percent on previous years and littering down by 2.44 percent. Vunderbar. One wonders who has to count the spittle?

Also this week, Fenerbahce got further than any other Turkish team ever has in the UEFA football league. They are naturally ecstatic. I saw the game live from the stadiums press box where jounalists reported that never in all their years of football had they ever seen such brilliant fans. The support was absolutely deafening. And there was much arm waving, grinning and general Turkishness. My friend and former flatmate and colleague came to cover the match so I had my first visitor, which was great.

This weekend saw me run my furthest distance ever. 12km, which isn’t a lot compared to the other nutters. The Germans I run with were originally intending to run 18, but then decided to do 20km because they said they ‘don’t like uneven numbers’. Which, had my body not had been in total shock, would have made me laugh hysterically.

But fear not, I managed to slip a good few glasses of wine in, a dinner party at a lovely French guys house, a visit to a photography exhibition of Darfur and a little bit of clothes shopping. The clothes shopping has to stop. But it’s such a novelty to go to shopping centres which sell things that you’d like to buy. Was going to buy a teeny weeny pair of running shorts, but decided I would wait until I am fast enough to outrun any maurauding packs of Turkish men.

Work is tough going. Have now gone from being too busy to not being busy enough and am once again slightly unsure of what my role is. I think being cocooned in linguistic ignorance in the Czech Republic for the last 5 years has done nothing to help me with my personal development. But at least I don’t turn up to work with hangovers anymore so that’s something to be positive about. Tonight I am off to the cinema and then hopefully will have an early night.

I just heard that my friend Pavel from kuwait might visit next week too.

jah wobble

I was just skyping Jimmy when all of the stray dogs outside started going crazy. Then there was a big crash, I think some of the building opposite collapsed. No big story, it was derelict. So i thought maybe another earthquake was on its way. I was in one two weeks ago, but aside from my plant wobbling I didn't really notice it. And as most things in my world wobble at some point or other it really wasn't a cause for concern at the time.

However, after the 1999 earthquakes here that cause about 50,000 deaths, they did say another one was due within 10 years. Luckily my house is built on rock, but they do say the rest of istanbul will probably collapse if it happens. My Turkish teacher told me that some people are actually looking forward to it because it will 'clean out the riff raff' from the poorer parts of town and open the doors to new developments. The situation in Turkey is that the east of the country mostly lives in poverty. So in the last 20 years Istanbul has seen it's size grow from just a couple of million to 20 million. Around 20 years ago Istanbulus wanted to introduce permits and visas to stop the poor people coming into their city.

I have seen tented communities here by the side of industrial towns. They make Roma gypsies look like the elite classes.

Anyway. I am experiencing a little minor disaster right now. My water has been out since I got home, Who knows how long for although I suspect there may be no shower tomorrow and the bottle of wine I bought has gone bad. Think I'll just go to bed,,,, or I would if the frigging dogs would stop barking.

small worlds and big men

It’s a small world. But some people are take up more room in it than others. For example, a guy I used to hang out with called Matt Skelton. 6ft5 of prime heavyweight championship Thai boxer who has since gone into Queensbury rules (normal boxing) and was set to fight, amongst others, Audley Harrison. (yes I know you will google him you nosey sods). Because we even went on a date or two, but in the third round I rang the bell. Nice enough chap though, although he did break an unnerving amount of furniture just by sitting on it.

I remember the first time I met him I’d started a new Thai boxing gym. My initiation (because I had come from rival gym) consisted of me standing in the ring and getting the crap kicked out of me by a variety of professional fighters, just to see if I’d fold. I didn’t. And the last guy on their list to try and freak me out was Matt. I weighed six and a half stone (41 kg), he weighed 19. So I ran at him with all my might and tried to grab his neck and get him into a grapple, then sort of hung there like a fairy necklace for several minutes before he said to our trainer: ‘Nigel…. Get her out the ring, I can’t do it mate.’ Praise the Lord for that. And thus a friendship was born.

Well now it seems that he is coming to fight in Istanbul and I have been asked by my old newspaper to cover the match. Unfortunately it coincides with the time my mum is here so I’m not sure I can. But it would have been priceless to see the look on his face when I sauntered up with a notepad.

I’ve been thinking a lot about old boyfriends. Actually mostly I have just been doing memory exercises, and since I have probably had more failed relationships than there are Turkish verbs and it seemed like the bigger challenge to try and remember them all.

In amongst my repotoire I can count:

The one who fathered a child while we were dating but hoped that my maths would be so bad I wouldn’t be able to count back for 9 months. (he nearly got away with it too)
The one who turned gay
The psycho
The stalker
The desperate to get married guy (no matter to whom)
The serial cheat (actually that category covers some of the above)
The crushing bore
And the one that got away whilst I was too drunk to notice.

It all sounds rather hopeless, until you count the number of years I have actually been single because of the number of eejits I have actually turned down. Then you realise that I actually got off lightly – I could have just met the one and stayed with him! Instead I have managed to weave all of the rejected threads into the rich tapestry you see today (errrr.....).

Married men are the worst. It always annoys me when the press, and society alike, paint a terrible picture of ‘the other woman’. Like she deliberatly set out to wreck a home, and poor defenceless hubbie was so wooed by the evil bint, that he lost leave of all his senses. In nearly all cases when you finally find out a man is married, he claims it is the first time he has ever done it…. And inevitably you always meet a random girl in a pub afterwards who thought she was his only affair too.

Double standards never cease to amaze me. I sort of find myself quite often agreeing with uber-femministic Germaine Greer columns in the Guardian, which is sort of scary. It may not be long before I start burning my bras and insulting chaps who hold doors open for me.

Why am I rambling on anyway? Well its that time of year when yet another round of friends is orf getting hitched. Many more are breeding and spawning. Rutting season. And I’ve been looking around at Turkish men who are very cute, but having spoken to many expat women, I have realised may just not be culturally compatible. Or maybe its because expat women are a certain breed. We are usually fiercely independent, have seen enough crap to have a clear idea of what we can and can’t tolerate, and usually (having lived independantly for so long) find it absolutely impossible to deal with a man who leaves used tea bags in the sink and doesn’t shut the fridge door properly.

This does not go down well with the male species who generally like to feel at least a little bit needed. But after being told by a former Serbian special forces soldier once that I was ‘too cold and independent’ (wtf!?) I have been experimenting with my feminine side. Sometimes I pretend that I can’t open bottles or assemble Ikea furniture, and by crikey it seems to work! Men’s chests go all puffy when you ask them to do stuff. Who knew? The goddamn times I have put my back out lugging furniture and suitcases up 6 flights of stairs by myself because I didn't think any guy would really want to help me.

The other thing I noticed last week, after a couple of guys from my department started using the office gym, is that they were not overly impressed that I was lifting heavier weights than them – especially now that I only weigh 50kg. In fact I understood (unbeknownst to them) that they were actually giving a rather incredulous commentary on how fast I was running on the machine to the rest of the gym. I may well be a source of embaressment in a male dominated environment. Which pisses me off because I even try to wear lipstick sometimes these days (although to be honest it usually ends up on my chin and my teeth which is a grisly sight to behold).

I try not to tell guys that I am a boxer or that I can probably lift heavier weights than them. I have even tried holding children in public without shaking or dropping them (well it worked for Tony Blair). Strangely kids seem to like me (either that or they are intelligent enough to spot a fake and are pissing themselves laughing).


And so I can conclude that being a strong woman and managing to be attractive only works if you are Angelina Jolie, who stole Brad Pitt from that chick in the frightfully twee American sitcom ‘Friends’. Hussy. It also got me thinking that the only guys who are not scared of me, tend to be British. So as much as it pains me, there may well be a time I have to return to that soggy, miserable, expensive island. On the bright side, with British lasses being more on the portly side, I wouldn’t have to worry about going to the gym and staying in shape any more. Although being fit enough to outrun them when I find out I've been unwittingly dating their lying scumbag of a husband might be a wise idea.



By the way, if any of you are reading this, do feel free to comment. Seems awfully quiet on this side of Venus.

The taming of the shoes

I remember when I was a tween I coveted a book called ‘sex tips for girls’ by a female New York jounalist called Cynthia Himel. She trotted around the big apple wearing fantastic leather ensembles with high heels and back combed hair (well it was the 80’s) having all manner of experiences with men and relating them in her weekly columns
.
Yes ladies it’s true. Carrie Bradshaw is a weak and fictional copy. This chick was the real deal.

There are many things she wrote that stuck in my mind forever. One great piece of advice was: never wear white tights, EVER. The other was that when a woman wears red shoes something magical happens. So after hankering for a pair of red heels for at least a year, I finally found a pair that I was likely to be able to walk in over Istanbul terrain.
I wore them for the first time today. The first sign that dear Cynthia might be right was when I got out of the taxi and walked to the office. My shoes attracted many a beep from passing motorists. In fact one guy was so busy looking at my shoes he slammed straight into the van in front of him. I kid you not. My shoes caused a pile up on the highway.

In fact the woman at work just laughed at me because she caught me admiring them. Again.

Anyway, in to work I skipped, full of the joys of spring confident in the fact that at the grand old age of 31, I can still stop traffic, well of a fashion.

But apparently the magical effect of my shoes only works within a mile radius of the store where I bought them. Yesterday I paid over the odds, while at the shopping mall, to have some particularly nasty passport photos taken. Like a dumb ass I left them at home this morning and I needed them for work permit purposes.

So rather than waste money on a taxi I decided once again to try the bus to get home at lunch time and pick them up. However there is a magic word which I only just figured out today that they write on the front of buses. I can't pronounce it but it means that wherever you thought you might be going – you are most definitely not. I think its something to do with the evil eye. To cut a long story short, and not for not the first time in Istanbul, I found myself being driven through the Turkish wilderness and ceremoniously dumped at the end of the line (well I presume that's what it was as there were no markings) on the top of a hill so steep that I knew that my shoes would not take me back to civilisation, which was miles away.

A little Turkish boy who got off at the same stop as me was tugging my sleeve with some urgency. I know not why. Then he looked at me sadly and disappeared off into the bush.

So there I was on a windy rain lashed hill. I could tell that I was somewhere near the Black Sea beacause I could see the ships entering the Bospherous. I tried clicking my shoes and saying ‘there’s no place like home’ but it didn’t work. So I tried to walk. When I realised it was futile unless I wanted bunions so I gave up – figuring that a bus would have to come back at some point. Which after a good dose of hypothermia and several nervous cigarettes, it did. Everyone we picked up on the way to our next bit of wilderness wore headscarves. They stared at my shoes, and not in a ‘wonder where she got them’ kind of way. It's amazing how RED shoes can look when everyone else is wearing muted shades of black and grey. Some whispered. My red shoes were beginning to make me feel like a scarlet woman. Which is why when I saw a taxi I started screaming at the bus driver to let me off and was half considering using the emergency hammer to smash the window and escape.

Got back to work 3 hours after I set off. It ahould have been a 20 minute round trip.

Last weekend I went island hoping on the group of islands around istanbul. This weekend more snowboarding!

An old blog from last Friday

As sods law dictates, the very second I am legally employed by an umbrella
company and start getting paid, my Turkish work permit comes through. So
all that work, photocopying, making international phones calls, running
around, scanning, DHLing, meeting tax advisors, arguing with HR,
researching contracts and other nonsense enabled me to be legal for
precisely one week more than if I’d have just sat on my ass and done
nothing. Brilliant.

Today I am nursing a slight hangover. A rare occurrence for the all new
moi. I went to dinner last night with a Dutch corporate lawyer and three
bottles of sauvignon later we were putting the world to rights. That was
about when my colleague walked into the restaurant whose name,
embarrassingly, I could not remember. I also realized that I had forgotten
the name of my dinner companion. It was starting to turn into a tricky
social situation on my part, until I took my elbows off the table at the
precise point my companion decided to put his weight on his and flipped the
table over, knocking all the wine glasses onto his lap.

Embarrassing introductions were immediately replaced by an embarrassing
clean-up operation by two obviously tipsy people.

Needless to say I have avoided all common points of contact in then office
building today, eschewing elevators and canteens until I feel I can look my
colleague in the eye again. Which may be never.

Tonight I am going to my Irish friend, Mairaid’s, house. Mairaid used to
work at Oskar Mobil 5 years ago. Since then she has moved to Turkey, bred,
and has a very lovely apartment overlooking the sea. So tonight is a St
Patrick’s Day celebration of sorts. I have green suede boots especially for
the occasion.

I am hoping to go home and have a little sleep first. Apparently there will
be French people there (her husband is from that part of the world) of the
single male variety. Unfortunately you cannot buy the leprechaun promoted
breakfast cereal ‘Frosties Lucky Charms’ here, but if you could - I would
stuff my bra with it.

On Saturday I will probably feel ill. And on Sunday I’ll have brunch with
corporate lawyer.

So that’s my weekend sewn up.

Last weekend, incidentally, I went snowboarding in the Uludag mountains
after taking a ferry across the Marmara sea. It was good. My first time on
a black run.

Working girls, the bad date and why I need more shoes

There comes a time in every gals life when she has to work, unless of course she gets to live the dream by finding that rich handsome millionaire to marry sometime in her 20’s. However as THAT particular career plan never really happened (and I attriburte it to being moved to ‘Biggleswade’ as a teen – where the only wads of paper anyone ever had on their person in large amounts was anti social behaviour orders from the police) I have been forced to resign myself to a lifetime of office drudgery.

So far in my short and unillustrious career, I have been fairly lucky as far as office relationships go. One girl tried to bully me once at a newspaper in England, but that didn’t last long because I am far more scary than she. Plus she was just throwing her considerable weight around because she was screwing the editor and, as with most of her (and his) relationships, that pretty much ended as soon as he sobered up for a brief spell.

In the Czech Republic I didn’t really understand most of what was said most of the time, which meant I pretty much liked everyone because if they were fools, I didn’t know about it.

So fast forward to Turkey, a complex social system defined by what your job is, what you wear, who you know and how much bling you can cram onto your fingers. There is no avoiding it, my clothes are old and outdated and what I once mistook for a fabulous collection of shoes, with their worn heels and scuffed toes, no longer cut it. And unfortunately a 4 quid blouse from Promod and 7 year old Next suit (one size too small) does not a business executive make.

I, of course, am lost in a sea of social nuances. I never know when to keep my mouth shut and I have a habit of speaking to everyone in the same way - no matter who they are. I’m the sort of person who blathers on, only to writhe in her bed at night, unable to sleep, fretting about what I might have said wrong, who I have probably offended or which cat I have let out the bag. Thank God I didn’t get the PR position here. I’d have been a disaster.

All in all though my progess is slow, but it’s steady. Which I suppose is to be expected considering it’s my first major leap in years and I have been thrust from the world of creative concepts, cute advertising taglines and designing cool magazine concepts into a world of ARPU’s, KPI’s, CDI’s, BHT’s, COPS and a whole string of other acronyms I never really had to deal with until now. It’s enough to put you off the alphabet forever.

Socially, however, things are pretty good. I have had three dates since I arrived here, which is three more than I have had in living Czech memory (which due to copious amounts of wine was pretty short).

Todays lunch date, with the general manager of Hyundais weapons branch (did you know they make tanks? And trains? Well you do now) was nothing short of an absolute farce. First of all I couldn’t find the building, which was the skyscraper right next door, in heels on uneven terrain. Lots of unneccessary and toe crunching steps for no reason. My next faux pas was to empty the entire contents of my lunch tray (sauce and all) down the front of my trousers and smash all the crockery in the process bringing all of the restaurant to a gaping halt. Brilliant. My date seemed unperturbed by the fact he had invited a retard to lunch, which obviously means there is something quite wrong with him. I only just fished the last kidney bean out my trouser pocket a minute ago. I didn't even order kidney beans, how does that work? Sadly he is really not my type anyway and his hair could do with a wash.

I never was one for meeting people off websites or hanging out on the typical expat scene, but I have found the expats here to be an absolutely lovely bunch. Probably because they are a slightly more well rounded assortment than you tend to get in Prague, i.e. they can drink lots AND do interesting stuff AND they have generally lived in many many different cultures, unlike the people off the expats.cz site who settle in their first foreign city and think they are Richard Attenborough.

This week I am working hard again. My boss Martin is pleased with what I have done, which makes me happy as he is so busy I haven’t been able to hassle him for many explanations or help. Tomorrow I may go to the foreign correspondants club again. Friday is a small goodbye party for my German friend who is off travelling for a while and Saturday could see me going dancing with a Turkish chap I had lunch with last Sunday. But then again I may have to work.

I was asked to give a speech on ‘the youth market’ on Monday at a marketing club but I think I am going to have to cancel as all of my deadlines are next week. I’m off back to Prague in April to see Will before he moves to Kiev, see my friend who is undergoing chemo for quite extensive cancer, and visit all my other favourite people in the world.

Oh and I did a British Army fitness test this week. I mostly rank ‘excellent’ except in running where I am on the border of ‘average’ and ‘good’. I have also lost 6kg since August.

boxing clever (or not)

It has been a busy week. First of, amid much excitement, all my boxes arrived from the Czech Republic. However, upon opening the boxes I was disappointed to discover that my clothes, shoes and other essentials were not nearly as exciting or attractive as I remember them being. Quite why I thought I needed a scuffed up pair of silver boots with a wobbly heel or a packet of hair conditioner for curly hair is beyond me. But I left a massive carbon stamp-print trying to get them here.

Things are still in boxes as, predictably, I don’t have enough storage space for all this crap.

But I was happy to receive my CD’s and DVD’s. I also have not one, but 8 mismatching wine glasses to drink out of. So that was exciting. Oh and plates, you'll be pleased to hear. I don't have to eat out of a washing up bowl any more.

After last weeks blizzards I am happy to report that this weekend was temperate 16 degrees – 20 degrees. On Saturday, despite one too many wines with a colleague the night before, I managed to wake up at 8am and go running along the coast. I tried racing cargo ships. Despite having a brutal weight of several thousand tons, the ships won.

In the evening I went to a house party hosted by a vet from Guatemala. Actually he is a bit more than a vet. Food companies pay him tens of thousands to make battery farmed chickens more happy. Well I'm sure I could come up with a few suggestions for that too for a one off payment.

He has an extensive collection of wine and south american rum and his hobby is growing rare psychotropic plants from around the world and also growing potent chillis. I wondered if he ever got his crops mixed up? Either way you’d be in for a nasty surprise.

Anyway he is lovely and also a keen martial artist so we are going to have an evening of crap martial arts movies. Vunderbar.

I attended my first BBQ of the season on his terrace. In the morning I felt fine again, which was odd, so I had breakfast on my terrace before struggling to assemble ikea furniture. Luckily I was rescued by my German friend Ute who took me to a beach near the black sea.
I fell in trying to long jump across a channel, hardly suprising considering my legs are only 2 inches long in heels, and had to spend the next hour walking about in sodden jeans. Luckily by the time we reached a restaurant with a terrace I was sort of dry so we stopped to get our insides wet instead and watched the ships awaiting clearance to go down the Bospherous. This woman is in her mid thirtys and in the morning ran 18k before we went on a 2 hour hike and then she helped me finish my furniture. Mental.

Work is busy but fraught with complications. Even getting the most seeminly obvious information that should be accessible to everyone (KPI’s and churn rates) is a bloody marathon. At this rate it would be quicker for me to contact VF UK and get the bloody info from them.

Anyway tonight an exciting night finishing some shelving and unpacking my books. Oh how the mighty fall!

Socks

I was quipping to a friend the other day that single women in their 30’s are a bit like socks, the longer a single one floats around, the less likely you are to find its pair.

This is okay because you can always find a use for an odd one, like straining ricotta cheese in the absense of muslin, or polishing windows. Of course if you’ve been alone too long, with the aid of a sock a couple of shirt buttons and a frivolous stitch or two, you can actually make yourself a friend to talk to.

Yes, of course it’s Valentines day, and as usual I was the odd sock out in the office as women staggered upstairs from reception groaning uner the weight of their pink orchid arrangements. Yes they give orchids here. A bit more classy dontcha think? The only time I ever generally get flowers from a suitor is when they have done something wrong. So they always make me suspicious anyway.


Don’t get me wrong, I could have had a date, but I really didn’t fancy getting gropped by the over friendly ikea guy (see previous blog). He is like the polyester sock of the underwear world really. Makes you sweat, you can’t wait to pull it off and prolonged use would probably lead to a fungal infection. My other option was psycho serb who ‘laaaavs’ me and wants to move in with me and ‘do the washing up and clean’ while I work.

Which is why I am currently alone and eating a meal out of a plastic washing up bowl in my flat, in the absence of kitchen equipment, which is still sat at Turkish customs. Given the choice between washing up bowl of salad and my other options…. well who says age does not bring wisdom?


My friend Pavel reported in from Kuwait today, where a group of MP’s are trying to ban Valentine s day under shaira law. Apparently it is a blasphemous commercial holiday that detracts from the values of Islam and encourages inapropriate behaviour like kissing. And yes, in some parts of town the police are raiding shops that contain red or white flowers and shutting them down. And quite right too.

Personally I have always approached Valentine s day wih some trepidation. At school the popular girls would always get a stack of cards. If I got one it was generally from the fat smelly boy in Mrs Stones class because I was the only girl except his mother that would actually talk to him. Bless I wonder how Steven Buckly is? I hope he is a VP at microsoft or something.

It was also generally a gamble when I got back home from a disappointingly empty school desk. My father, being Yorkshire and particularly dour when it came to special occasions, would either forget, or find out halfway through his third pint on his way home when he noticed the ‘two for one Valentines Campari special’ banner behind the bar and would have to rush to the gas station to buy whatever wilted offerings they had left. I think he got better in his later years, but then I guess the fear of a dressing down from a wife and three daughters as well was a bit too much to take.

But fear not. I am not stuck here talking to my socks all the time. Last night I joined a friend and took part in his live online photojournalism course which was excellent and being taught by a man who is three times world press photographer of the year. It’s the first time I have seen an online classroom in action and it was impressive. There were people from all over the world taking part. One guy, from Africa, whose excuse for not doing his homework was that he got shot at when he went outside with his camera.

Tomorrow I am going to a dinner party. And on Saturday I am entertaining some friends from Budapest and hopefully joining the running club. I have a notion to try the Istanbul half marathon this year.

I hit the gym with gusto this week and have formed a friendship with an tattood Aremenian former professional volley ball player and martial artist. And yes ladies, he is.

He’s also a devout Orthadox. But he did invite me to his church last weekend. Was that a date? Or is it like going out with a bunch of mates if the holy trinity is involved? Do I have to buy them popcorn too? Can I have their share of communion wine?

Errm anyway back to the socks and plastic washing up bowl meals for me. Besides, it snowing like hell out there. So much for fiery men and southern climes.