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.
Friday, 25 July 2008
Monday, 21 July 2008
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?
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?
Saturday, 19 July 2008
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!
Friday, 18 July 2008
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….
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….
Friday, 4 July 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, 24 June 2008
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….
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….
Monday, 16 June 2008
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.
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.
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