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!
Monday 25 February 2008
Friday 15 February 2008
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.
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.
Monday 11 February 2008
not to be scarfed at
Right now in Turkey the great headscarf debate rages. Way back in the 80’s
when the people’s hero Ataturk was in power, he banned the wearing of
headscarves in government buildings, including schools, in the interest of
promoting a secular and modern society.
The current President, Gul, is known as a hard line Islamist, whose wife
wears a headscarf and whose election caused the recent street
demonstrations and the threat of a military coup back in May of 2007.
People feared it would only be a matter of time before he started imposing
his ‘extremism’ on them. Perhaps they were right.
His argument is that the banning of headscarves in schools and universities
is sexist and prevents many women from teaching and studying in schools.
Gul’s own daughters study in America where head scarves are not an issue.
The opposition say that allowing scarves is only a step away from forcing
people to wear them. This may sound extreme, but remember that this is a
fiery nation. Last year some teenagers were nearly beaten to death by fellow students for
drinking tea in a café during the daylight hours of Ramadan. The last thing
you want is for this country to take the hardline.
Non of the female Istanbulus I know want to wear headscarves or see them
introduced. They spend way to much on their hair to cover it up. Most of
the more traditional Muslims are poor, uneducated and from the country. The
problem is that their numbers are many and they have the voting power to
see this law revoked.
It’s true that whenever I am in a Muslim country I see women wearing
headscarves and long dresses I feel sorry for them, and think about how
awful it must be to be forced to wear something black, hot and
uncomfortable because men are too brutish to be able to control themselves
around the sight of a naked ankle. I always saw it as a repression.
But now I wonder. Which is worse? A girl in a headscarf, or a nine year old
girl in the biting wind in Newcastle wearing a g-string, short skirt,
heels, make up and a T-shirt emblazoned with an utterly inappropriate
sexual slogan? We talk about Middle Eastern women being repressed, when so
far as I can see, feminism in Europe has taken a million steps back over
the last decade.
There was a decade or two when using bikini clad women in
advertising was seen as sexist. Not anymore.
Thanks to the semi naked sweaty chicks that grace the cover of ‘Maxim’
females are conned into thinking that looking like a cheap tart is a sign
of empowerment. Getting so plastered on ‘Tropical Reefs’ you end up having
drunken unprotected sex and getting a good dose of the clap from a stranger
is a sign of freedom. Hurrah! But so far I am only seeing one beneficiary
in all of this. And it ain’t the woman.
According to hug a hoodie, Cameron (conservative M.P), studies have shown that nearly half of all British males
believe it is okay to force a woman to have sex in certain circumstances. In Turkey it is said that 45 percent of men think its okay to hit a woman in certain circumstances. Which is worse? Or are they the same? In one culture a woman can work if she wants but generally stays home to look after the kids. In Enlgnad women generally work AND look after the kids and all to be paid, on average, 20 percent less than their male counterparts some 37 years after equal pay laws were introduced. Freedom? One wonders.
Personally I am against headscarves because I detest all forms of organized
religion but I do quite like the hymns. I also like wearing skirts but then
I do have the legs for it. A lot of women don’t. Therefore shouldn’t in the
interests of common decency.
Anyway onto cheerier subjects. Had a mostly quiet weekend punctuated by one
expats gathering during which I won an award for the ‘best expat
introduction’ written on a website. Can’t remember what I wrote. It wasn’t
that good and I was banned from the site shortly afterwards.
The other nights I stayed in – quelle horror! Yes party Maie seems to have
gone to ground for the moment.
My friend Mike is having an operation on his brain tumour today. We are all
anxiously awaiting news of his status. It’s the size of a golf ball which
isn’t good. Okay so that wasn't a cheerier subject.
The other week I met members of the Istanbul Foreign Correspondents club.
Lovely bunch of people, although I felt like a fraud as all of them were
fresh out of war zones.
This week not a lot. I should start getting paid now all my documents are
here. I’ll probably go to the cinema and on Wednesday join my friend on his
photography course. I plan to go to the gym lots and start running so that
I can join the running club over the next fortnight without looking like
an idiot.
Also good is that my documents are all here, so I can finally start the
process of getting hold of my stuff that is being shipped from the Czech
republic and, more importantly, I can start getting paid. Thank god!
Anyway, its nearly gym time. My boss isn’t here today so I can have a nice
long session.
when the people’s hero Ataturk was in power, he banned the wearing of
headscarves in government buildings, including schools, in the interest of
promoting a secular and modern society.
The current President, Gul, is known as a hard line Islamist, whose wife
wears a headscarf and whose election caused the recent street
demonstrations and the threat of a military coup back in May of 2007.
People feared it would only be a matter of time before he started imposing
his ‘extremism’ on them. Perhaps they were right.
His argument is that the banning of headscarves in schools and universities
is sexist and prevents many women from teaching and studying in schools.
Gul’s own daughters study in America where head scarves are not an issue.
The opposition say that allowing scarves is only a step away from forcing
people to wear them. This may sound extreme, but remember that this is a
fiery nation. Last year some teenagers were nearly beaten to death by fellow students for
drinking tea in a café during the daylight hours of Ramadan. The last thing
you want is for this country to take the hardline.
Non of the female Istanbulus I know want to wear headscarves or see them
introduced. They spend way to much on their hair to cover it up. Most of
the more traditional Muslims are poor, uneducated and from the country. The
problem is that their numbers are many and they have the voting power to
see this law revoked.
It’s true that whenever I am in a Muslim country I see women wearing
headscarves and long dresses I feel sorry for them, and think about how
awful it must be to be forced to wear something black, hot and
uncomfortable because men are too brutish to be able to control themselves
around the sight of a naked ankle. I always saw it as a repression.
But now I wonder. Which is worse? A girl in a headscarf, or a nine year old
girl in the biting wind in Newcastle wearing a g-string, short skirt,
heels, make up and a T-shirt emblazoned with an utterly inappropriate
sexual slogan? We talk about Middle Eastern women being repressed, when so
far as I can see, feminism in Europe has taken a million steps back over
the last decade.
There was a decade or two when using bikini clad women in
advertising was seen as sexist. Not anymore.
Thanks to the semi naked sweaty chicks that grace the cover of ‘Maxim’
females are conned into thinking that looking like a cheap tart is a sign
of empowerment. Getting so plastered on ‘Tropical Reefs’ you end up having
drunken unprotected sex and getting a good dose of the clap from a stranger
is a sign of freedom. Hurrah! But so far I am only seeing one beneficiary
in all of this. And it ain’t the woman.
According to hug a hoodie, Cameron (conservative M.P), studies have shown that nearly half of all British males
believe it is okay to force a woman to have sex in certain circumstances. In Turkey it is said that 45 percent of men think its okay to hit a woman in certain circumstances. Which is worse? Or are they the same? In one culture a woman can work if she wants but generally stays home to look after the kids. In Enlgnad women generally work AND look after the kids and all to be paid, on average, 20 percent less than their male counterparts some 37 years after equal pay laws were introduced. Freedom? One wonders.
Personally I am against headscarves because I detest all forms of organized
religion but I do quite like the hymns. I also like wearing skirts but then
I do have the legs for it. A lot of women don’t. Therefore shouldn’t in the
interests of common decency.
Anyway onto cheerier subjects. Had a mostly quiet weekend punctuated by one
expats gathering during which I won an award for the ‘best expat
introduction’ written on a website. Can’t remember what I wrote. It wasn’t
that good and I was banned from the site shortly afterwards.
The other nights I stayed in – quelle horror! Yes party Maie seems to have
gone to ground for the moment.
My friend Mike is having an operation on his brain tumour today. We are all
anxiously awaiting news of his status. It’s the size of a golf ball which
isn’t good. Okay so that wasn't a cheerier subject.
The other week I met members of the Istanbul Foreign Correspondents club.
Lovely bunch of people, although I felt like a fraud as all of them were
fresh out of war zones.
This week not a lot. I should start getting paid now all my documents are
here. I’ll probably go to the cinema and on Wednesday join my friend on his
photography course. I plan to go to the gym lots and start running so that
I can join the running club over the next fortnight without looking like
an idiot.
Also good is that my documents are all here, so I can finally start the
process of getting hold of my stuff that is being shipped from the Czech
republic and, more importantly, I can start getting paid. Thank god!
Anyway, its nearly gym time. My boss isn’t here today so I can have a nice
long session.
Monday 4 February 2008
Foreplay
Well tas been a mixed weekend indeed. Last week I found myself mostly working and too tired to go out in the evening. Honestly when you have to wake up at 6am everyday even going to bed at 11pm everynight is a disaster.
Despite being exhausted on Friday I figured I should accept a dinner invitation from some nice Turks I know and attempt to be social for the first time this week. It’s amazing how quickly I can slip into hermit mode if given a fair chance. We had a meal in Nitantace, a very expensive area full of high end retail stores and paid an arm and a leg for a few bottles of pinot grigio. I’m still not being paid and my rapidly depleting funds are a source for concern. After that we went to ‘the Roxy’. However this is not like the Roxy of Prague fame where one might be seen making a box to trance music, or catching a few break beats, or stamping to a mental D&B set. In this Roxy, they actually played the Weather Girls ‘Its Raining Men’. Twice.
So disgusted was I at my descent into wedding DJ music, that I had no choice but to slam back a few shots of hazelnut vodka. Anyone who knows me knows that in order for me to do shots, things have to be very dire indeed.
Strangely either the music got better or I became more anethetised because after a time I actually started to enjoy myself.
Then came Saturday which started brightly. The sun was shining, it was 15 degrees. I wore only a light jumper. I meant to pop to the shop to get some breakfast but instead ended up walking along the coast towards the black sea for several hours. And bloody lovely it was too. I had a spot of lunch and then got the bus back, which was about when I sobered up and my hangover kicked in.
Consequently I spent the whole of Saturday evening hugging a cushion on my sofa and wondering what the rugby score was.
Sunday was lovely. A friend picked me up and we had brunch by the sea, after which we went to Ikea, and then to a lovely fish restaurant and watched Fenerbahce V Galatasaray before he drove me back home. Unfortunately, it seems, a lift to Ikea is akin to foreplay to this particular Turk and I spent several hours in the evening playing musical chairs around my living room trying to avoid the arm that kept trying to creep around my shoulder. Eventually he got the hint. But bummer of bummers, the bedsheet set I bought has bits missing so now I am going to have to find another escort to get there. Hopefully some kind of amputee.
Despite being exhausted on Friday I figured I should accept a dinner invitation from some nice Turks I know and attempt to be social for the first time this week. It’s amazing how quickly I can slip into hermit mode if given a fair chance. We had a meal in Nitantace, a very expensive area full of high end retail stores and paid an arm and a leg for a few bottles of pinot grigio. I’m still not being paid and my rapidly depleting funds are a source for concern. After that we went to ‘the Roxy’. However this is not like the Roxy of Prague fame where one might be seen making a box to trance music, or catching a few break beats, or stamping to a mental D&B set. In this Roxy, they actually played the Weather Girls ‘Its Raining Men’. Twice.
So disgusted was I at my descent into wedding DJ music, that I had no choice but to slam back a few shots of hazelnut vodka. Anyone who knows me knows that in order for me to do shots, things have to be very dire indeed.
Strangely either the music got better or I became more anethetised because after a time I actually started to enjoy myself.
Then came Saturday which started brightly. The sun was shining, it was 15 degrees. I wore only a light jumper. I meant to pop to the shop to get some breakfast but instead ended up walking along the coast towards the black sea for several hours. And bloody lovely it was too. I had a spot of lunch and then got the bus back, which was about when I sobered up and my hangover kicked in.
Consequently I spent the whole of Saturday evening hugging a cushion on my sofa and wondering what the rugby score was.
Sunday was lovely. A friend picked me up and we had brunch by the sea, after which we went to Ikea, and then to a lovely fish restaurant and watched Fenerbahce V Galatasaray before he drove me back home. Unfortunately, it seems, a lift to Ikea is akin to foreplay to this particular Turk and I spent several hours in the evening playing musical chairs around my living room trying to avoid the arm that kept trying to creep around my shoulder. Eventually he got the hint. But bummer of bummers, the bedsheet set I bought has bits missing so now I am going to have to find another escort to get there. Hopefully some kind of amputee.
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