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.