Stone cold sober

I'm concerned.

No, scrap that, 'concerned' is too flimsy a word, I'm looking for a word that encompasses absolute panic.

I'm freaking out, that's probably a better phrase.

Why?

Vodka doesn't work.

When vodka doesn't work, you know you've got problems.

I suppose I should explain. 

My friend visited this weekend from Norway. It was great to catch up with her, and it was strange because it felt like she'd never been away, we seemed to slot back into our old roles like nothing had changed. That in itself was worrying. That sounds horrible I know, but it's not meant like that, what I mean is, it's been two and a half years, and nothing has changed. Now do you see why it's worrying?!

My friend has travelled and lived in Australia for a year, I haven't done much other than get my heart broken and decide I want to live in Turkey. I suppose you could say that's progress, at least I made a decision, and getting your heart broken is life experience, right?

So anyway, not much had changed. We went out for a drink, one drink turned into three pitchers, and before you know it, Nicky was a tad bit drunk. Yes, I know, it's easily done. However, this was a kind of drunk I hadn't experienced before, and to be honest, I didn't like it one tiny little iota.

I sloped off around 10pm (shameful, I know) feeling like someone had deflated all the helium out of my little balloon. It was like the world's biggest downer. I got the bus home, there I sat, all sorry for myself, bundled up in my coat and scarf, tears in my eyes, and an old man took pity on me and asked if I was okay.

What did I say?

'Fine, thank you'?

Nooooo.

'I don't knoooooowwwwww' was my wailing reply. 

The poor man looked like he'd wished he'd never asked and went back to reading his newspaper.

I have never felt more like I didn't belong, like I wasn't where I was meant to be, and like I was missing something.

It was horrible.

The worrying thing about all this is that I figured I feel so bad when I leave Marmaris/Turkey because I don't have much of a social life here, other than going to zumba and talking to my friends on the phone all night. If we're talking about going out on Saturday nights, well I just don't do it, because a) it's too cold, b) it's too expensive, and c) it's crap.

But anyway, I thought maybe a social life was the answer to my prayers. Turns out, it's not. Vodka is not my friend, going out makes me feel worse, and spending money means I have less to go to Turkey with. I've just got to make peace with the fact that I'm pulled to this place for a reason.

So what am I supposed to do? Be miserable for 46 weeks out of 52?

So I have been proactive, and developed a plan. Every girl should have a plan.

Give me a year, a healthy dose of luck (fingers crossed), and things will be looking much, much better, and I'll be situated in a much more easternly direction.

In the meantime, I'll be giving vodka a very wide berth indeed, because I was this close to grabbing an empty bottle, sitting in my PJs, and singing 'Allllll byyyyy myyyysellllllfff' a-la Bridget Jones, and that, dear readers, is never a good look, even for Renee Zellweger.

Technical gremlins ...

Life as I know it has ceased to exist ....

My iPhone has died.

It's a disaster on the same scale as the great Wispa shortage of 2008.

What's more worrying is that I actually felt a huge wave of panic when it dawned on me that I was going to be without that valuable lump of plastic for a few days. Seriously, I'm talking a million thoughts running through my head in way too short a space of time, like 'ohmygodwhatifsuchandsuchcalls' - the lack of space indicates that I didn't breathe either.

I've calmed down now, sort of.

Fingers crossed by 7pm on Saturday I'll once again be in possession of my hypothetical left arm, and life will once again be filled with mobile Viber, Facebook and Whatsapp. Phew.

It has got me thinking though, maybe it's just me and really I'm overthinking this completely, but the mass panic I felt for a split second is quite worrying. I mean, what did we do before mobile phones and social networking? We actually spoke to people face to face, do we do that much nowadays?

I suppose I'm at a bit of a disadvantage as a lot of the people I "speak" to on a daily basis aren't in face to face distance, be it a nearby town or halfway across Europe, so for that I have a good excuse, but my reaction was a tad extreme in hindsight. My first thought was that it would be sod's law that in the couple of days I was incommunicable, a message I've been waiting for beyond hope for a month now would appear and get lost in the ether of broken phones. It's not gonna happen, but it would be just my bloody luck for it to happen right at that moment.

I'm ever hopeful, you can't ever accuse me of pessimism.

So now I've stopped hyperventilating, I can concentrate, albeit with a slightly shaky hand thanks to going cold turkey from my beautiful sparkly, pink, phone, on my upcoming weekend. This weekend I will actually have a life. Yes, one of those things that everyone else seems to have but I only find occasionally. I think they call it a social life, but I can't be sure because it evades me somewhat.

My friend is visiting from Norway so I will be venturing out of the house and not returning until after curfew on not one, but two nights. Yes, I know, I'm a rebel. I also fully intend to get completely trollied on overpriced vodka, simply because I can. Yes, I know, I don't drink in this country, I save that gem for getting high-pitched in Turkey, but I ain't going easternly for another 8 weeks and this girl needs to be numb, forget, and to feel good for a few hours at least. There's been a few too many tears lately for my liking, it's time to smile a little, for one weekend at least - before I go back to being friend-less because everyone from the 'Shire has abandoned me. 

Happy days.

With friends like these ...

What a week.

Uneventful is not a description I could use.

Following on from last week's completely depressing blog post, you'll be pleased to know I've become pro-active. I'm no less fed up, well maybe a bit, but I'm using this to power me on and I have a plan. Yes, a proper one, like the ones they have in films that ALWAYS work, without fail. This one will work too, because it's awesome.

So this week I have worked my rather sizeable arse right off. My plan is to work every hour god sends for the next year and save, save, save! So this time next year I will probably be hideously lacking in sleep and essential nutrients, but things will be better, and that will be worth losing a little sleep for.

Something slightly less positive has occured this week. Well, I say this week, it's actually been coming for a while but seems more pronounced at the moment.

Okay, deep breath.

Basically, yeah I've been a little down recently, and because of that I've needed my friends. Most of whom haven't been there.

I say 'most' because some have, and for that I'm grateful - and thank you, it means the world.

But those that haven't ... well, true friends?

I'm thinking not.

It might sound selfish, but really it's not. I understand people have their own lives and commitments, but it seems a common trend that you find a guy, or girl, and suddenly you disappear off the face of the planet and forget everyone that was there before. My problems and wants might seem immature to you, simply because it's not what you want, but bear in mind that your life isn't what I want either, yet I'm still there for you no matter what, and probably always will be.

I have to say that outloud, because it's been churning me up for a couple of weeks. I'd say it to anyone it might concern's face too, but will probably never have to, because I never see them anymore.

Anyway, onto a lighter note.

I'm going back to my second home again in eight weeks. Yep, I'm heading out to sample the winter delights and see what that brings - probably not frostbite like I'd get if I stayed here. I hate New Year normally, I find it such a let-down, so hopefully this one will be different, and spending it in a place I love will be pretty amazing. It's going to be weird though, so many people I associate with the place won't be there and most of it will be closed, but I get to party the night away with my girls, so really, I can't complain. Bring on the Efes.

Moving on, and it seems I've found a modern day, wannabe Mr Grey.

Before you get all excited, I highly doubt he's actually a patch on the Grey dude, I just think he talks the talk, erm, quite graphically. Please don't ask me how I got myself into this palava, half the time I never know myself. There was no alcohol involved either, which is worrying in itself.

Basically, picture the scene - Saturday night, freezing cold, snuggled up on the sofa in fluffy bed socks, very unflattering PJs, a massive hoodie and not a scrap of make up. A text comes ... 'are you horny?' .... Er no, I'm watching X Factor.

Is it me or is this variation of flirtation just downright weird? I might be missing something, I just don't get it. I'm not feeling the love, I have to say.

Instead, I'm going to continue the next week in the same vein as the last one - work my arse off again, try not to think about a certain situation that is causing me a bit too much upset than it ever should've, dodge increasingly sexually-explicit texts and look forward to the weekend, when my friend is coming to visit from Norway. Nicky is going out and Nicky is going to PARTY.

Well, probably until about half ten, when I decide it's too cold, my feet hurt and I'm tired.

Oh the joys of the big 3-0.

Smile like you mean it ...

Warning - depression-laden post ahead. Read at your own risk.

 

Marmaris has done a number on me again.

I'm not sure how it manages it; I mean, this is a sunshine drenched holiday place, it's meant to make people happy. I leave the airport a generally undepressed person, with a decent job, friends (albeit ones that never want to go out) and a fair few hobbies to keep me occupied, and I return a borderline depressed, post-alcoholic, no hope for the future, would-rather-be-somewhere-else shell of a person.

This surely is not healthy.

This is why I have decided to put the grand plan into action, for the sake of my health, sanity, and the sanity of those around me too.

Why do I go if it makes me feel this way? I hear you ask. Well basically, when I'm at home, I'm on countdown to go back, so I don't do anything, and I settle - and when I get out there, I live. Go figure.

I've realised that settling is not for me.

I've been going to Marmaris, and Turkey in general, for the past 5/6 years and during that time I've made lots of friends, lost a few, had more arguments than I can remember, laughed more than I ever thought possible, had a relationship that nearly broke me in half but came out stronger, lived and generally smiled quite a lot. Every single time I leave I cry, every single time I leave I swear blind next time won't be as bad, but every single time it's always worse and I come back more and more down. This time is the worst of the lot, and I thought last October would take some beating.

Oh you lucky, lucky readers!

There is no man involved, not really, before anyone asks, because last year's antics taught me that Turkish men are a species like no other, and if you want to keep your brain and heart intact, you're best having your fun and leaving it behind, as much as possible anyway. I'll admit I find this difficult, but it's a work in progress. No, my heart breaks every time I leave Marmaris because, as dramatic as this sounds, I feel like I leave part of me behind.

I'm slowly building up a support network and a life over there, and the damn frustrating thing is that I can't live it yet, because I was stupid when I was young, and I signed a piece of paper that meant I owe the bank a decent amount of money. The other frustrating thing is that I seem to have fallen in love with a country that doesn't pay wages as high as here. If it did, believe me, I'd have been gone years ago. So unfortunately I'm left with no option but to stick it out, well unless I do a moonlight flit but I seriously wouldn't be able to handle the guilt. Therefore plan A is in full swing, well it's trying to be in full swing, it's more of a shuffle at the moment, but I'm hoping it gathers momentum.

I'm looking for an evening and weekend job.

I've decided that I can cut my waiting time down to a year, rather than two, if I can just earn enough money to make two repayments every month, rather than one. Why didn't I think of this sooner?

Of course, I'd love nothing more than to be saving up to get myself out for the summer next year, but life is a bitch and that is one hugely unrealistic option. So, save like a bitch I will, and I'll just get myself out on as many holidays next year as possible, and suck up the coming home depression. It'll all be worth it though, right?

Now, the downside of this great idea is that Britain seems to have turned into a place where jobs are like gold-dust and nobody wants you to make money. And people wonder why I want to leave. I'll do anything, seriously, I'll clean nighclubs if I have to, anything to get this dream off the ground because there's no way I can carry on like this. Aside from the fact, I'm not getting any younger ...

I can see you all rolling your eyes and thinking I'm 'doing a Nicky' - let's pat her on the head - but wait there, this is the first time I've been deadly serious.

I love my home, truly I do, my family and friends are there and I love them to pieces, but my future doesn't feel like it lies in my home town, or even this country, and I know the one place that pulls me back time and time again, and the one place I feel alive, the one place I've lived more than anywhere else, despite being in England for the past 30 years .... when you get a pull that strong, sometimes you just have to listen to it.

Maybe I'll fail, maybe those doubters (of which are are many) will be right, but at least I'll have tried, and at least I won't have a 'what if' hanging over me.

So first things first, I need a job. Or a lottery win. Whichever comes first. And then I need to work my arse off like never before. If I had a social life I might be bothered, but I don't, so really it shouldn't make much difference. It seems these days that any night out with friends needs to be planned around three or four weeks in advance, after checking multiple diaries, boyfriend/husband's commitments, kids' parties etc etc. Being the only single one amongst your group of friends is no fun, let me tell you - they think you have a party party social life, well if I managed to get out of the house once in a while, yeah I might have. Alas, I do not, as a girl sitting alone in a bar is never a good look, it screams 'loner'.

So please, if anyone out of the three people that actually read this blog have any ideas, they're very greatly appreciated - but please make them serious ones, I don't think I'd make much money selling my body, I'd probably end up owing them money.

Are you suitably depressed?! Welcome to my world ....

Socially phobic

I'm going home at the weekend. Well, my second home.

I'm quite proud of myself, I've managed just two trips this year, and that for me is quite the record. Actually, scrap that, I went to Istanbul didn't I? Maybe not so good then, I've been Turkey-bound three times again. Can't keep away from the place, I tell you.

Now if you believe the general consensus at the moment, the reason I can't keep away is nothing to do with me quite liking the place and going to see my friends, no it's clearly because I'm addicted to the male population of the country. I say this with my voice, and words, dripping with sarcasm. But hey, let's not get into that - it's a can of worms I really can't be arsed to open again.

This is partly the reason why I haven't been blogging lately, because I figured that once I started down that road, I'd rant and rave for weeks on end and nobody wants to read that.

So other than fretting about my suitcase weight, causing me to buy a new one - one of those ultra-light ones, just so I can fit an extra pair of shoes in, I've been mostly avoiding dates I quite fancied going on.

Yes, I am date-phobic.

I don't quite understand my problem; I can talk, I can jabber away for hours on end quite happily, so why do I clam up and find it utterly terrifying when faced with a male I don't know that well, and am forced to make small talk for an indefinable length of time?

It's because you can only talk about the weather for so long. I'm English, this is what we do, we bitch about the weather. This is all well and good, but how do you spin out precipitation and broken clouds for a couple of hours? I find it hard enough filling five minutes.

So I'll 'fess up. I've been asked out a few times lately, I don't know why this has happened, maybe it's because I gave up looking, but anyway, I've bailed on two dates, with two different dudes, and I'm considering bailing on another because the thought just brings me out in a cold sweat. I'd actually rather sit in my PJs, watching Eastenders, than go through the gut-wrenching terror of small talk. I don't like going to the hairdressers for this exact reason.

I think I need help.

My friend suggested alcohol, but from past experience this does not help matters, in fact it hinders it considerably, as me falling over and getting high pitched doesn't really help paint a positive picture.

This is why I'm eternally single, and will remain so if this little problem continues.

I'd be quite happy to fast forward the first few weeks and head straight to the more comfortable time where everyone knows where they stand and text/conversation analysis has gone out of the window. See, I'm not cut out for this, I'm far too paranoid to be questioning things at the best of times, without hearts and emotions getting in the way. I'm not the best at going with the flow either.

I might join a convent, what do you reckon?

Or failing that, emigrate to Turkey - you don't have any of this getting to know each other business out there, if you believe everything you hear.

Anyway, I'm hoping that my jaunt over the length of Europe re-ignites my love for blogging, because if I'm honest, I've been finding it rather difficult. I've had a crisis of confidence as far as my writing's concerned, to the point where I've asked several different people to read what I've done on my book so far, to give me a honest opinion on whether to carry on, or scrap it. I love writing, I just wonder whether anyone likes reading it, because as much as it's fun to do, it's always nice that someone enjoys the fruits of your labour.

Oh woe is me.

So the next time I write something, I will be sipping, sorry, gulping an Efes, scoffing a chicken kebab, looking out to sea from (hopefully) my sea-view hotel room and chilling the hell out. I wonder what drama will unfold this time, let's face it, it always does, and it's a full moon during the first few days .....

I can guarantee however that whatever goes down will remain in Marmaris.

Watch this space!

Option eliminated

I think I've found my balls.

Not literally thank god, but metaphorically.

I'm not entirely sure if blogging about this right now is entirely sensible, considering this little incident only occurred about an hour ago and I'm still absolutely FUMING, but blog about it I will, because I can, so there.

I am sick and tired of men thinking they can pick me up and put me down whenever they see fit, playing with my mind in the process, making me smile for a couple of days, before whipping the carpet out from underneath my feet and deciding that there's something better over their shoulder, plunging me back into boredom and slight unhappiness. In this case, that something better would be a statuesque Russian to get engaged to.

I am not a statuesque Russian, in case you hadn't noticed.

I will never be a statuesque Russian, and quite frankly at this moment in time, I never want to set eyes on another statuesque Russian as long as I live.

I am done.

I am not falling for it again, I'm worth more than an option, in fact dammit, I could give the statuesque Russian a serious run for her money, but quite frankly I can't be arsed, because what's the point?

I shouldn't have to compete, so I'm not going to. I've cut myself from the equation, you can't have both. Or even six or seven, because there's probably more too.

What a lucky, lucky girl, eh? Such a trustworthy dude she's found to spend the rest of her life with. I'm more interested in finding someone with whom I'm the ONLY one, and not one of many, even if that does mean being on my own for a bit longer, or possibly even forever the way things are going.

Is it ever going to happen for me?! Just once?!

The art of poking

Shame on you and your dirty mind!

Of course, I'm talking about the Facebook variety of prodding someone you may or may not know. Lately, this seems to be more the latter in my case, as half of Turkey somehow deems it socially acceptable to prod me at all hours of the day and night.

It goes without saying that these rather uncomfortable nudges don't generally come from females.

Now don't get me wrong, I don't mind the occasional friendly poke, especially from my friends; it's more of a "remember me" kind of thing, or just a "hello". However, this week things have taken on a more slightly dodgy air.

Friends of friends now think I'm fair game to prod to the point of bruises, and do I know these people? Do I hell as like. Do my friends know these people? Well they're on their lists, but hell, I've got people on my list that I've only met once.

For all I know, a mass murderer could be inflicting these nocturnal nudgings on me.

It's for this reason, I don't retaliate. In fact, I'm not being old-fashioned when I say this, but who the hell wants to be poked?! It's not very romantic, is it? You wouldn't randomly walk up to someone in the street and start poking them in the arm going 'oi, look at me!' would you?

Well maybe you would, but I wouldn't, not where I'm from anyway, you'd get slapped for your efforts. I wouldn't recommend it.

I was "reliably" informed by my friend that Facebook poking has become a bit of a male dating ritual, to get the attention of any girl they like the look of. He also went on to tell me that during a decent poking session, this can generally involve anything up to 20 victims. Talk about spreading your net wide.

I'm not sure I'd be that flattered by it to be honest.

In fact, I'm not.

I'm ashamed to say I did actually involve myself in a poking war a few months ago, purely becuase I had nothing better to do, but I got bored after five minutes - what exactly is the point? And who wins? And what's the prize?

Bugger all, basically.

I'm off to tend my metaphorical bruises, I'm black and blue.

How to walk in high heels?

Can you hear that sound?

The sobbing, sniffling one? It's really faint, but every so often you'll hear a full on sob.

Yeah, that's my Visa cowering in a corner from over-use.

"Please don't use me again" it wails, in a really poncey voice, nothing like the voice when I first had it and it was all shiny and new; "use me, I'm all yours" it pronounced then, all clear of balance and begging to be christened.

It's been christened alright, a few too many times, in fact you could even say that card's been christened so many times it's turned into a bit of a Visa-whore. It's not choosy where or who it gets down to business with either.

Floozy.

I'm on a mission you see, it's a rather expensive mission, but it's a mission of self-transformation, and these things are never cheap. Be it hair, nails, clothes, shoes, handbags, whatever, I'm bored, I want change. Thing is, the universe doesn't seem to see it that way and every time I go out with my floozy of a credit card in hand, I never find anything I want, so end up buying something else. So at the end of the month I have a bill that skints me to clear the balance and I STILL have the same hair and no new clothes. Grrrr.

Take today for instance, today was a slight success in that I found new shoes. They're beautiful, they're pink, they'll change my world. However, whilst looking for these (bargainous) beautiful foot-adorners, it has struck me that I am never going to be able to wear fashionable heels ever again. Have you seen the size of the heels nowadays?! Okay, I sound like my mother, but oh my days, I'd end up in A&E after half an hour of shuffling. Did I ever actually manage to walk in them before? Or this is a new development since the advent of gladiator sandals? I blame flats and gladiators, they've ruined me for life, never again will I put on a pair of sparkly sky-scraper heels and strut confidently a-la Carrie Bradshaw; no, instead I look more like Patsy or Eddie from Ab-Fab after too much wine.

Is this because I'm 30 now? Do you suddenly stop being able to walk in heels when you turn 30?

Nobody told me this before, I'm sure I'd have remembered. So shuffling it is, unladylike I know, but we suffer for fashion, and besides, I only have to get from A to B and find a chair, then I can sit perched, with beautiful shoes. It's not like I have to actually walk in them really, we're not hiking Everest.

The clothes issue is a problem however, mainly because some daft sod has deemed it fit to start stocking autumn clothes in August. Some of us would like to continue with a sad excuse for summer until at least the official end, and don't want to be forced into hats and gloves before it's really time. The problem I have is that shopping for new holiday clothes has become pretty much impossible, and therefore I'm having to reinvent my existing clobber. This does not sit well with me at all.

Where's Gok Wan when you need him? Off cooking bloody Chinese food, that's where!

Abandoned by my fashion guru, what is the world coming to?

In sickness and in health

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

Not that I'm locked in a room specifically.

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

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

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

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

Win-win all round.

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

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

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

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

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

zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Down with the violins ... hello tissues

Cue the violins.

I am miserable. I am borderline depressed. I am full of cold. I need to go back home.

There, that's got it all out in the open.

Now let's get onto something more hopeful ... oh, wait, there is nothing.

I made the mortal mistake of looking through old photographs last weekend; anyone who is friends with me on Facebook will see that it triggered a week long sulk and depressed everyone within a five mile radius. I then decided that I hadn't tormented myself enough, so I dug out my old holiday blog from last October, and that really sunk me into the depths of despair.

Why, oh why, do I do this to myself?!

And I've been listening to Adele.

I might even have made a couple of ill-advised phone calls in an easternly direction ... which got me absolutely nowhere as per usual.

Someone slap me now.

I'm feeling the need for copious amounts of vodka, but I fear that'll just send me into a Bridget Jones-style 'All By Myself' singalong, but without the dodgy PJs. I don't even like vodka that much.

So whilst trying, and failing, to distract myself from my unfixed heart, I've decided I want to explore the country that I've decided my future lies in.

I love Marmaris, I really enjoyed Istanbul, but I want to see more. I want to see the real Turkey, I want to experience the real culture when the tourism element's taken out. I want to see a willage, sorry, village, and experience that. Forgive me and my western girl sensibilities, and yes I'm very grateful for all I've got, but I think there's something beautiful and stripped-back about the way of life in a south-eastern village, and I want to really see it for myself.

Problem with all this is, how the bloody hell am I going to manage it?!

I don't know anyone in a south-eastern willage, well I do, but he doesn't want me, so it's going to be a difficult one to sort out. I've found some places that do home-stay tours, but I don't really want to do a guided tour thing, I want to wing it. Might take some thought. The other places though, they're much easier to visit, so maybe I'll start with those and hope I make it back in one piece before I get too ahead of myself.

Anyway, anyone with any ideas, feel free to throw them my way ...

I'm still on countdown, as I always seem to be, and I'm starting to feel progressively more guilty for feeling this way. I have a good job, I have friends, I have a wonderful family, yet for some reason my heart screams for me to be somewhere else completely. It's got to be wrong, surely.

So yeah, as well as feeling heartbroken, lost, lonely and like I'm not where I should be, I now feel guilty.

Happy, happy days.

And here's me thinking my 30s were going to be fun ...

Consulting the oracle

I am feeling the need for a spooky intervention.

I get this sudden urge every so often, mainly because I'm impatient and can't just go with the flow. Patience is a quality I was born mostly without; I missed that queue, possibly taking too long in the queue for other more desirable qualities at the time, y'know the ability to eat one's body weight in chocolate and the like.

But this week, more than most, I've felt the need to consult the spooky oracle.The problem is, my spooky oracle is no longer in the spooky business, and a quick search on Google didn't really fill me with much confidence. There are some seriously questionable "psychics" parading as the real thing, it's quite insulting to the real ones.

As you'll probably guess, I've had a few readings over the last few years, some fantastic, some not so. One in particular was memorable for all the wrong reasons, when the lady in question told me I was going to see a spaceship and that I'd know it was it was, even if no-one else believed me.

Hmmm. Quite.

I did actually see something strange in the sky once ... but it was after copious amounts of vodka and we weren't that far from an airport at the time ...

I'm not sure why I feel this sudden compulsion to know what's going to happen, or what could happen if I take a certain path, or someone else decides to do something, or not, or ... oh God, my head hurts with the possibilities. I guess at the end of the day, what will be, will be, so maybe I should learn just to go with the flow. I like the excitement of a reading though, it fills me with possibilities and makes me feel positive. One area no psychic has ever managed to get right is my love life.

I've had spot on readings on career, home life, loads of other stuff, but my love life is only ever half-right - usually before the dude in question takes that other path we were talking about. Usually to someone other than me, much skinnier and usually with swishy blonde hair. Think Pantene advert and you're not far wrong. They're often Russian, or anything but northern-English too.

I'm starting to get a complex.

Anyway, you'll be pleased to know I've booked a flight back in an easterly direction, so I'm resuming doing what I tend to spend an overwhelming part of my life doing - counting down the days. It's worrying really, surely I should be living in the moment and enjoying life here as well as there, but noooo, time here is spent saving, planning and counting down, until it's all over, I get depressed, and then have to book again to semi-drag myself out of my stupor. Repeat process. When will it ever end?!

In the meantime I'm busying my mind with my writing, from which I have travel articles coming out of my ears and I'm actually running out of destinations to write about, and I've just enrolled on an online TEFL course. In case you're ignorant to such things, as I was until a few years ago, TEFL is Teaching English as a Foreign Language and it's basically the qualification you need, amongst other things, to teach English abroad. It's a start if nothing else, we'll see where that leads.

Back to the writing, and I started re-reading what I'd written on my book the other day. All 167 pages of it. I'm half way through. It's not bad y'know, it's not Harry Potter (thankfully), but it's not half bad. Hopefully by the time it's finished and tweaked to within an inch of it's life, it'll be even better than not bad. I've got a few other little plans on the horizon where my writing's concerned too ... it's all exciting stuff.

Maybe I don't need to be consulting Mystic Meg after all, maybe I should just go with that flow that seems to infuriatingly avoid me most of the time. Or maybe I should just do what normal people do ....

Read my daily horoscope and be done with it, or head to Yoga and realign my chakras.

All together now - ooohhhhmmmmmmm

Flirty Thirties!

Not sure who Micky is, but happy birthday to them!

I am 30.

How the bloody hell did that happen?

I main thing is, I survived. And let's face it, that's always a positive. The other positive is that I feel alright, in fact I don't feel any different. Age is just a number, right? I thought that was something old people said to avoid talking about their age - oh wait, I am old.

Okay, I'm not old, but not being in my 20s anymore has caused me a bit of grief over the last year or so, I have to admit. Now the painful day has gone, I'm not so bothered, because as long as I don't think about it, nothing's any different. Ignorance is bliss and all that.

It probably sounds weird, being so bothered about entering another decade, and I wouldn't mind had things gone to plan but, well, they haven't really. Whatever the plan was.

See, I was meant to be sorted by the time I was 30.

I'm not sure what I mean by sorted, and it was probably a totally unrealistic plan, but something along the lines of not single probably. Instead I'm permanently so, but I've decided that if it means being single and still looking for someone amazing, and not having been stuck with one of the undesirables I've tried in the past, well I'm probably in the winning position.

I was also meant to have figured it all out, y'know what I actually want to do with my life. Instead, I still haven't got a clue. Well I do, I've figured out the location of what I want, I just have to work towards getting there. As for what I'll do when I actually get there, that's still up for discussion. But I have ideas, so y'know progress.

Seriously though, I'm fine with it, it really is just a number, because I'm still the same and if anything, I still feel about 18. Which is a good excuse when I do really stupid things, because I can just blame it on my mental age. Or alcohol. Whichever is more appropriate at the time.

I'm taking a positive outlook on this, because to be honest that's how I've felt over the last few days. This is my decade. This is the decade where I pay off my debts, for definite because of the end date, where I can make the move I want, and where if it all goes spectacularly wrong, i.e. I bottle it, the only person I can blame is myself. There's something scarily exciting in that. So I'm looking forward to my future, I just have to wait a couple of years to be able to live it completely. That's the frustrating thing, but that's what happens when you stupidly sign a piece of paper from a bank, who stupidly offer to lend you stupid amounts of money, because you stupidly used your credit card for stupid reasons.

I was stupid.

No more.

Let this be a lesson people - loans are evil.

So anyway, to celebrate my day of birth a few years ago, I've pretty much had a week of festivities and spent quality time with my friends and family, which ended in a day at Alton Towers - which explains why today I feel my age, and as though I've done ten rounds with Mike Tyson - I'm bruised to hell and ache like ... well, hell. It was fun though, turns out I like screaming my head off, and I do indeed scream like a girl. It's very therapeutic, I should scream more often. Chance would be a fine thing, mind you.

Today has been spent looking for flights to take me back to where I should be. Turns out that's easier said than done. The cost of flying these days is not fun, and the flight times aren't either, but it's a small price to pay I guess. The next time I write a blog, I should be booked up - exciting! I can't wait to get myself back, I feel like I've been gone too long already and it's only been a fortnight. The countdown has begun ...

I'm now going to bid you goodbye, as I'm very much hooked on the third installment of the Fifty Shades of Grey trilogy. I'm sure you've all heard of it, and Mr Grey is calling my name as we speak. That's my aim for my 30s, I'm going to find Mr Grey - oh what a chore!

For the love of Marmaris

It's taken me well over a week to write this, because had I done it before now, you'd all have got the violins out, been borderline suicidal and would never have read anything I wrote ever again.

That is not the way to keep readers, and the guilt of lost lives would have consumed me forever.

So I thought it wise to wait.

I've been back from Marmaris for a week now; the urge to jump on a plane and go straight back is not abating any, in fact if anything it's getting worse by the hour. If I wait until the end of September, as per plan, it will be a miracle on the scale of Phil Mitchell staying off vodka. I've got to try though, thanks to the cost of flying being horrendous at the moment. There's a good argument for befriending a pilot here, but unfortunately I don't have any pilots on my Facebook list.

I love Marmaris.

I'll shout it out from the rooftops if I have to. I thought I'd fallen out of love with it, I wasn't even that fussed about going in the end - but a day or so into the holiday and I remembered it all, in glorious technicolour. And now I'm stuck with the memory and I'm not there anymore.

Sniffle, sniffle.

Cue violin time.

I will be there for longer soon, give it a while to get myself sorted and I'm there. At least this trip has taught me what I want all over again, and reminded me of the perils of settling - which is exactly what I was starting to do. Heaven forbid. I had visions of a rocking chair, golf-course and cats. Shudder at the thought.

Marmaris is the best and worst of humanity all rolled into one, yet for some reason I forgive it's bad bits and fall head over heels with the good bits every time. That's true love for you, right there. Who needs a man?! Five years and still going strong.

Speaking of men, this was the first trip back to the scene of the crime since it all went pear-shaped. It was weird, I'll admit, and I refused to go into the ex's bar (thankfully he was in Alanya, and not lurking behind a palm tree waiting to ambush me and drag me back to the darkness, with his questionable eyebrows), completely out of protest, which is just as well because it's been taken over and it looked, quite frankly, pants. So instead I found a new one, bar that is, before everyone jumps to the completely wrong conclusion.

Is that a tan?!

I had a ball. I had fun, I partied, I did everything the ex didn't allow me to do. I met some new friends, who I miss now I'm back, but will see again really soon. I actually had a proper holiday without rules. I missed him, and I shed a few tears, but I found closure and that chapter is complete.

Time to write some new ones.

Speaking of writing, I seriously regretting not taking my netbook, as inspiration hit in the biggest way whilst sat on a sun-lounger with a strawberry dacquiri in my hand. It could have been the alcohol but I took it upon myself to find paper and pen. Chaos insued. Turns out it's not easy to buy paper and a pen in high-season Marmaris. In the end I managed to convince a bemused-looking shop-keeper to give me some of his printer paper in return for me buying a pen for twice the price. I sat on the balcony, full of Efes, and wrote my little heart out. I wrote a letter to the universe, let's hope it listened. Time will tell.

My summer romance - Mr Efes

See, Marmaris might be bad for me in many, many ways, but in terms of inspiration, it's highly beneficial - in fact, I think it should be on prescription, I'd have a bestseller in months. If only. Writing is my future though, it helps me empty my head of crap and make sense of it, it distracts me from reality, and who knows where it might lead. If I can combine the place I love and the thing I love, I'll be a happy bunny, albeit a slightly borderline alcoholic bunny, thanks to the influence of Efes.

I'm deliberately not giving you a blow by blow account of the whole 16 days because it literally involved a lot of madness and, again, Efes, which is never a bad thing, but makes for really boring reading. There was the usual Marmaris politics, fights, drama and confusion - it wouldn't be Marmaris without it, but it all came good in the end. As per the way it always goes when I'm in that part of the world, the full moon had blood on it, and that night was, predictably, fight night. Turns out lightening does indeed strike twice. Or even three times in this case. They say Cancerians are ruled by the moon, I think I'm a complete case study to prove that correct.

The sun sets on Marmaris part 1 ...

I didn't have any commandments to protect me from the madness this time, because anyone who read them last time will know that I broke every single one of them in about four days. It was, quite frankly, a shameful effort, so I didn't bother this time. It's for the best, because I'd probably have broken them within two. I blame the Efes.

I always blame the Efes.

And the moon.

So first installment over, successfully survived - just. Only question is, how long will it be until part 2? Bets are on ...

Two weeks in a suitcase ...

I've decided it was a man who deemed it necessary to give holidaymakers a limit on luggage. It has to be, no sane woman would ever think it sensible to plan day and night outfits for 16 whole days. What about variation and choice? It's a woman's perogative to change her mind after all! Unfortunately 20kg and a smaller suitcase does not leave Nicky much room for changing her mind.

So it's in the midst of this packing hell you find me, surrounded by maxi dresses, playsuits and the occasional pair of leggings ... oh and a ridiculously tiny pair of black denim shorts - what the hell was I thinking?! Even Barbie wouldn't rock those bad boys.

I don't do packing at all well, mainly because my OCD kicks in and I convince myself I've forgotten something hugely important, like my make up or, heaven forbid, my GHDs. Two weeks in humidity without a pair of straighteners would be a disaster close to the great debacle of 2008, when I was forced to go cold turkey (literally) for two weeks from Wispa bars, thanks to me forgetting to buy a job lot at the airport. It wasn't pretty, trust me.

This whole palava isn't helped by my coach company, who shall remain nameless, deciding that my normal sized suitcase (in my opinion anyway), is too big to take on board, so I've had to borrow a smaller one. Now I can imagine you rolling your eyes, thinking I've gone and got a suitcase that's half a metre too wide or something - no, it's 2cm too long. Yes, you heard me right, 2cm.

Again, I'm convinced this is all down to a man.

Other than packing hell, I'm looking forward to my two weeks (and a bit) in the sun. I've actually forgotten what that bright light in the sky looks like, seeing as summer doesn't seem to have bothered coming to England this year. I fear my first day on the beach is going to be painful for all involved, when I blind everyone with my milk bottle skin in a bikini. Cover your eyes people, for your own safety.

It got me thinking back to last year though. Last week (yes, I've remembered the date) was a year to the day I met he-who-shall-remain-nameless. My god how things change. Funny what a year can bring. I'm not kidding myself that it's not going to be weird this year, a lot of people that were so linked in with my summer last year aren't there now, and from what I've heard, the resort has changed a fair bit. I've decided this is a positive though, because let's face it, the faces from last year haven't really served me well, unless you're into self-torture, which I'm not - so out with the old can only be a good thing. And now I've had time to think about it and the dust has settled, I'm glad the dodgy-eyebrowed-one is in a resort a few hundred miles away from where I'll be - or at least he'd better bloody well be.

A good few years visiting Marmaris has hardened me up - I might have lost my senses completely last year thanks to a few heavily-accented, charming words and a wiggle of an over-plucked eyebrow, but my last visit opened my eyes to the dark side of this beautiful town. The idea of falling for it all again makes me want to scratch my own eyes out, so no worries on that score.

What I have done instead, is buy a shed-load of Dairy Milk (very large bars!) to take with me, and the only action I'm intending on getting is with Mr Cadbury, and I can guarantee it will be a hell of a lot more pleasurable too.

I'm going to be quiet for about 3 weeks now, whilst I soak up some rays and turn into a giant freckle with a red nose, but I shall report with my findings on my return, unless my suitcase is too red/bulky/heavy/unstylish for the bus driver and I don't even make it to the airport, that is.

I tell you, it's all down to a man.

Ciao for now! xx

The sun has got his hat on!

Welcome to the British summertime ladies and gentleman - where it's boiling and hotter than Egypt for a few days, thunders and then rains for about a week, before remembering that this is Britain and the weather is meant to be crap, so it goes back to being grey.

For today however, it's hot, hot, hot.

This is putting me firmly in the mood for holidays. I've even got my flip flops out and boob-tubes, I am determined to get myself a strapless base tan, so I won't scare people on the beach in three weeks' time.

Yes, three weeks!

Other than the sun shining, this week has been a topsy-turvy one, mainly because I've been ill for some of it. I don't do illness, I turn into a baby who just wants her mum. I spent most of Thursday looking like an anaemic vampire, thanks to a particularly nasty bunch of antibiotics, which clearly did not suit me. Thankfully I'm better now, although more than a bit freckly. I love the sun, but seriously, why do I have to look like someone threw freckles in the air and I looked up at the wrong moment?

This week has also presented a developing problem. I'm a bit confused to be honest, so maybe you could share some light on it.

There's this guy who I'm friends with on Facebook, who I went to school with but didn't really have much to do it, mainly because he never really spoke to anyone. Now, he seems like a nice guy, but he's in the middle of some messy long-distance relationship, one that is in the midst of a possible breakup. Whilst she's making up her mind, he seems to have found his voice and started talking to me. A lot. Apparently I'm on reserve.

Nice.

Now it's good to talk, you ask Bob Hoskins in those BT ads, but I can't help feeling like a second option. The other thing is that I don't actually like him like that anyway, I'm just chatting because I'm a chatty kind of person, and if someone talks to me, well I was brought up to think it rude not to reply.

Maybe that's why I get myself into such messes.

So I'm sort of struggling to not get progressively more insulted by this. Maybe it's harmless, but this does tend to happen to me a lot. Guys tend to navigate in my direction when they're in the middle of a break up, having major relationship problems, or just split up with someone. They chat to me, blah blah blah, and then they miraculously sort our their problems, realise they were with the right girl all along, and I'm forgotten.

Maybe they should put me on prescription for those with relationship problems - send your fella my way, he'll soon realise he was better off with what he had before.

This might sound a bit dire, but come on, once is unfortunate, twice is a bit of a bitch, but three times? You have to start asking yourself whether you're the problem.

So whilst I'm thinking it's nice to chat to people you haven't spoken to in ages, I can't help but have to bite my tongue whenever a compliment is thrown my way - I don't see why I should be anyone's reserve - you either want me or you don't, and more to the point, I also get to decide whether I want you or not.

I tell you, the nunnery is the way to go. If I wanted confusion and games, I'd go to Turkey.

Speaking of which ....

I can't wait, I'm so ready for sun, kebabs and Efes. I'm wearing suncream right at this moment, sunning myself in the garden, and the smell of it is transporting me somewhere eastern.

I've recently started wearing contact lenses again for the first time in a long time. I am meant to wear glasses, but because I'm shallow and far too bothered about appearance, I just don't wear them, so I often end up looking like I need a really good sleep. I've decided that the time has come to yet again get to grips with my eyeballs - literally. I'm alright with them actually, touch wood, although I get freaked out when I take then out, in case I can't do it and I'm stuck with one in my eye. This came about because the first time I wore them, a few years ago, one of the lenses split in my eye and I ended up having to fish it out in two bits. Not the nicest of experiences. But technology advances and all that, and now they seem easier.

The point of this ramble is that I'm going to take them on holiday so that I don't look like I didn't get in bed til 6am throughout the day, even though I possibly didn't get in bed til 6am. What I am worried about is having a slight incident like last time and ending up at a Turkish hospital, having some random poking me in the eye. My travel insurance is slightly substandard at the best of times, I don't think it would cover the psychological trauma.

Anyway, I have a life plan update.

Are you ready for this?

I'm so proud.

I've paid off my credit card.

I know this may not sound like a major event to you, but this is one huuuuge step in the right direction for me, and I have to say, I'm quite impressed with myself.

The more I think about it, the more I think the traumas of the last few months were sent my way for a reason - to give me a firm kick up the backside and sort myself out. Luckily, it's working.

You know what they say, every cloud ....

Like a phoenix from the flames

... or something less dramatic.

Dear readers, I am feeling good. Cue James Brown-style dancing.

If you managed to bring yourself to read my last post, you'll remember that I was wallowing in a very deep pool of extremely hideous self-pity, over something that should have been over with a loooong time ago. Well, I promised I'd rant and rave then get over it, and I've done just that, in fact I've gone one better and can officially say that I'm pretty much alright.

It's done with, I'll keep my memories thanks very much (because they still make me smile), and I'll bid it goodbye.

So onward and upwards.

I'm actually smiling again, how good is this?!

So other than super-gluing my stubborn heart back together in a very over-due fashion, what else have I been doing?

I've been propositioned by a trans-sexual.

I hope you weren't drinking coffee reading that, I wouldn't like to be responsible for third degree burns or broken laptops due to water-logging.

Yeah, you read it right - propositioned by a trans-sexual.

The person in question asked me if I fancied trying something with extras - literally. You'll be pleased to know I politely declined the offer. Which means I basically ignored it.

This is why I think it's probably wise that I give up on this other half business, because I clearly don't attract the right ones. I've got nothing against trans-sexuals in the slightest, if you like that kind of thing, but not for me - nor are overly-suggestive artists, erotic massueurs, stalkers or downright weirdos.

It's a losing battle, I tell you.

One thing I have decided though, is that I want Will.I.Am to be my best friend. He's hilarous. I want him and Gok Wan as my bessies - can you imagine the fun we'd have?! And I'd be seriously well dressed of course, and uber confident thanks to Gok's magic words. I've decided that this plan will complete me as a person.

A girl can dream.

Other than deciding which celebs are going to be in my posse, I've generally been panicking about the size of my suitcase, whilst at the same time deciding that the size of my belly is just as it will be, and sod anyone that has a problem with it. See - this is serious progress going on right here. I've come to the conclusion that I am what I am, and that's basically the end of it. The suitcase however, that is slightly worrying.

This has all come about because the wonderful Havas bag handling people at Dalaman wouldn't know the word 'gentle' if it bit them on the backside, and because of this my pretty pink suitcase that up to now has gone around the world with me, is looking a tad bit tired and battered - not to mention sporting a pretty hideous hole on the side. So that's gone to the big luggage park in the sky and I've had to have a new one. Now you should know that I'm not thrilled with it in the first place because it's red, not pink, so we started off on the wrong foot anyway, but it's a litle smaller than my other. This wouldn't be a problem had I not had trouble zipping the other one up, but I did, so this is posing somewhat of a challenge. Packing for this jolly is going to take some serious creative thought.

Looking on the bright side, summer is meant to be putting in an appearance tomorrow - it's sort of peeking through the curtain as I type this. About bloody time too, I've never known having to wear a coat, scarf and boots in May before. Of course, now I've jinxed it and it will probably rain for the rest of the year. Sorry folks.

God, this blog's random today - it's because I'm feeling a bit light y'see, it's all this getting over the boy thing, it's a really nice feeling - y'know feeling normal and not mental. If I could ever be classed as normal that is .....

Therapy

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm going to rant and rave and wallow in self-pity, but I can assure you that once it's out of my system, it'll be gone. I promise.

I think some people might see this as good news, in fact I know a lot will, but right now, to me, I feel like someone has punched me rather hard in the stomach - and I'm not talking a little weedy punch either, I'm talking a big, fat Amir Khan punch.

Ouch, to put it mildy.

As soon as I mention his name, well sort of name, you'll all moan and groan and probably not read anymore, but I can assure you, this is purely for my own therapy, because if I don't write about it, I'll probably cry and rant about it, and there's no way I'm messing up my eye make-up again.

The boy.

I'll pause for the groan.

It's been hanging but over for months, but I'm a girl and a cancerian one at that. And us cancerian girls fight when we feel, and oh my, did I feel. So despite it all going a bit wrong and him being, what I can now confidently call a twat, I still had the knowledge in the back of my mind that I'd see him in summer - and y'know, maybe like the films - he'll change, he'll see what he's lost and he'll want another chance. Yeah, I know, hilarious, more chance of Kilamanjaro melting. I can now quite categorically say that I've had my pink, sparkly bubble very much burst.

Hello reality.

The basic truth of the matter is that all the signs were there, I just chose not to see them, and I made some pretty crazy choices in the process. The only saving grace in the whole thing is that there literally is nothing more I could do, so it's not like I could look back on it and think 'if only I'd done ....' or 'what if', because the only 'what if' in the whole sorry state of affairs, is 'what if he wasn't such a monumental dick?'

Alas, he is a monumental dick, and sadly not in a positive sense either.

A coward too.

With dodgy eyebrows.

Who owes me 16TL.

But anyway, that's one year of my life I can't get back. Not the good bits, I'll keep those, because despite the whole pathetic story, I have nice memories and I had a hell of a time, but the bad outweighed the good, I just chose to sugar-coat that and pretend it didn't happen.

I've now woken up to the fact that it did happen, which is just as well really because it is now official that I will never see him again. And that's not a threat either, it's a geographical fact. There's something very wrong when a dude decides to up sticks and move cities to get away from you. I'm not sure whether I should take that as a diss or not, but I don't think I will, I'll just put it down to him being ... yeah, you guessed it, a monumental dick.

So, what now? Sigh, mope for a few minutes, block, block, delete. Goodbye forever. You have made your choice - you also made the wrong one.

Oh, and try and phase out the negative voice in my head going 'it's because you were ... (insert here), a) too miserable, b) not pretty enough, c) not slim enough, d) not rich enough (ha bloody ha), e) too clingy, e) just not memorable enough.

Yeah that's just me being a monumental dick now, I'll get over it, nothing a huge bar of Dairy Milk won't solve. I guess that's another positive to it, see I'm finding them now, the whole slim right down, glam right up and sashay my arse past him to make him see what he's missing plan can end. It's sad really, I was looking forward to that bit, I've now been robbed of the look on his face. Mind you, the diet wasn't really going that well to be fair.

So now that's all over, I do feel a tad bit bereft and feel the need to fill my head with something else, because I'll be honest, I've not thought of much else, despite protestations to the contrary. Right at this moment, I do feel a little free though, which is a novelty, maybe this holiday will be one to remember for all the right reasons, and one I won't come home from with borderline depression.

One can hope.

So I'm sorry for the hours of ranting and raving, I'm sorry for being so hideously blind to what everyone else could plainly see - but I'm a romantic and I wear my heart on my sleeve. The major positive? I know my worth, he's taught me that.

So y'know, thanks.

The D Word

Dating. A word that strikes fear into the heart of single girls everywhere.
Before you smug coupled-up types start sniggering, just remember what life was like before you decided to stick with the one sat at the side of you for life, thus giving up the trauma of having to meet random weirdos in a mix and match type situation, trying to figure out whether the dude sat opposite you is the right one or not. More often than not, said dude is certainly not the right one, hence why dating is a hideous exercise.

Now I'm not anti-social, I'm a pretty chatty and friendly kind of girl, I'm just not the world's biggest fan of sitting in a pub or restaurant with someone I barely know, attempting to make small talk as though we're long-lost friends, whilst silently figuring out when is a socially acceptable time to leave. I'm crap at small talk you see, I'm even rubbish at the hairdressers.

It makes me shudder thinking about it.

The whole dating scene in America would just make me want to emigrate. They're really big on dating aren't they? Well, if Hollywood is to be believed they are. In chick-flicks, the girl in question is jauntily going out with about four different guys on dates, all very non-commital, before whittling it down to the one she fancies most of all - which is generally the bad boy who leaves her bawling her eyes out into a tub of Ben & Jerry's, whilst the one that got away runs into the sunset with a giggly blonde. Of course, this being Hollywood, the one that got away always sees sense and they're reunited in some teary-eyed event, usually accompanied by crowds and running into each other's arms with appropriate music in the background, usually Coldplay or something equally Dawson's Creek-esque.

Sigh.

Why can't Hollywood be real?

But anyway, back on topic.

The whole dating scene terrifies me. What happened to just meeting through friends, being mates first and then hey presto! Suddenly you're three months in and the awkwardness never really happened. Nope, now we're forced to arrange meetings and do the whole 'let's talk about you' routine, silently dreading the offer of a lift home and the cringe-worthy 'will he/won't he' first kiss scenario.

Am I coming across negative? Well that's probably because I've never had a good first date. It's a catalogue of disasters that have left me wondering whether it really is me that's the problem.

Maybe it is, maybe I'm just far too picky, but I'm a Cosmo girl and I've been brought up to believe that I deserve nothing less than the best for me. I had a blip last year, I will admit, I thought I could settle into a life of half measures simply because I was blinded by something akin to love, albeit what I now realise was one-sided. I know now I could never have lived that life, because I could never enter into a relationship where it's considered okay to treat me like dirt because I'm English, and therefore in his warped mind, considered untrustworthy and lacking in morals. Charming isn't it? The quite ironic thing about the whole affair is that the only person in the pairing that was untrustworthy and lacking in morals was him, and certainly not me.

Ain't hindsight a wonderful thing?

The thing that worries me about this whole anti-dating stance of mine, is how the hell am I ever going to find anyone if I refuse to date? It seems that I am certainly not going to just casually bump into someone over the satsumas in Tesco, that stuff just doesn't happen in real life, so what I've realised is that I need some sort of Baby and Jonny Castle-type situation a la Dirty Dancing - preferably without the dodgy perm.

Now where to find my Mr Castle? Hollywood?

I'm out of ideas. Answers on a postcard people .....

Meet my friend Ben .....

It has begun.

A little sooner than I thought, but it's certainly here. With avengence.

The burning desire to jump on a plane has crash landed into my life and caused Travel Republic's web traffic to shoot through the roof.

I so want to go. Now.

Why?

I haven't got the foggiest. The weather's still a bit crap, nobody's really there yet and not everything's open.

So why, oh why am I having to literally restrain myself from packing a suitcase?

I suppose I should explain what the hell I'm banging on about, just for the benefit of those that don't really understand, or aren't aware, of my colourful travelling history.

I'm holiday addicted.

It's a very expensive habit, and one that I don't really see myself kicking any time soon. Now, I get stick for this, not because I like going on holiday, but because despite protestations to the contrary, I always generally end up going back to the same place.

I'm addicted to holidays in Marmaris, Turkey.

If I had my way it would be one very long, extended holiday. But alas, I am skint, so holidays will have to do for the time being.

I think I know what's caused this to start so early on - it's because I had a plan. Yes, it was a rather ill-timed and niave plan, but it seemed like a good one at the time. Had things worked out with the boy, and by that I mean, had he not been practicaly mute for most of the winter, causing me to seriously question my own sanity, then I planned to go out there for the week, which would have been next week. Instead, the reality of the matter is, I'm not going out next week, in fact I'm not going out for a little while yet, and things certainly have not worked out with the boy, because I actually don't even know if he's working there this year at all.

Part of me hopes not.

One day I will be over this, I promise.

Is it wrong to be very excited about a holiday, yet at the same time, really quite worried about the state I may come home in? I don't want it again, I can't do all that again, it doesn't work, I've tried, so I'm going to try my damned hardest not to. However, me, vodka and the sight of a certain person really don't go together well, if you throw Efes into the mix, then my god, you're really asking for trouble. So that's why a little bit of me is hoping I don't have to deal with it. Will I succeed? Only time will tell I guess, but this time I know how it ends, so really, what is the point? Just show me the Efes, baklava and a chicken kebab or three, and I'm a happy girl - I don't need a broken heart, thanks very much.

I wouldn't mind, but he still owes me 16 TL.

Git.

Another reason why I'm quite keen to escape is the weather. I can't swim very well, so this torrential monsoon-like situation isn't filling me with much joy. It certainly didn't fill me with much joy when my ceiling started leaking yesterday either - trying to sleep with a 'drip drip drip' backing track isn't easy, let me tell you. Will it ever stop?! I have beautiful summer clothes that need wearing before they go out of fashion!

This is quite a depressing post isn't it? I do apologise, it's the rain - again blame it on the weatherman. I think I've got a derivative of SAD. Show me the sunshine and I'm smiling.

Speaking of which, I think I may go and indulge in something else that never fails to make me smile ......

Ben & Jerry's.

If you were thinking other things, shame on you and your filthy mind!

I have discovered Ben & Jerry's Karamel Sutra and OMG - who needs a man when you've got a tub of that bad boy? It hits places that no dude ever could. So of course I've bought three tubs. It would be rude not to.

In fact, I think I can hear it calling my name ......

Diet? What diet?

Flying Solo

This is a bit of a blast from the past, a guest blog post I wrote last year. It's reminded me of my old writing style (which is arguably better than now!) and definitely gave me food for thought - enjoy!

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I am eternally single.

Now before you start with the ‘awww’ faces and the ‘bless her’ pats on the head, really it’s fine, it won’t last forever – I hope. However, in the meantime, it would be nice not to be treated like some sort of social leper because of my lack of a ‘plus one’ situation. Yes, it’s official, wedding/party invites are the single girl’s arch enemy.

Single ladies out there, I’m sure you’re familiar with this, it seems to be something me and my flying solo friends all agree on – that and the myth we all look like something out of Hogwarts, because that must be why we’re single,  of course - god forbid it could be out of choice.

Take one of my closest friends for example. We’ll call her Kelly, just for the hell of it. In the 11 years I’ve known Kelly, she has never been single. I know, jammy cow. I love her to bits, but she is unfortunately a smug, coupled-up type. I met her when she was in a long-term relationship, and when that split up, she immediately met someone else. She married him and now has two adorable children. From the age of 16 she has been part of a couple. It’s for this reason I think she finds my single situation a bit strange, and possibly abnormal. Actually, I’m convinced she thinks I’m weird, but then she might not be far wrong on that score.

But anyway, when we catch up, I always know the first question she’s going to ask me, without fail. The day she doesn’t ask me this question will be the day I know something is very, very wrong.

“Have you met anyone?”

Arrrgh! I hate this question with a passion. And no matter how unbothered I am about having to say ‘no’, I always automatically feel like a failure for a few minutes, before I mentally slap myself back to normality. Again, it’s that infamous ‘aww bless’ look which always follows my answer to this question that really gets my goat.

The simple truth is that my life does not revolve around frantically trying to find a man to make me feel complete. This is what Dairy Milk was invented for.

I recently read an article that said half of all women in their 20s and early 30s are single. Does that mean that all these women, a huge amount, are unsightly, socially inept and unable to hold down a relationship? No it bloody well doesn’t! It means that we don’t feel a totally desperate need to be half of a couple, we are perfectly able to have a good time without hanging from a man’s arm, although I will admit, a bit of male company doesn’t hurt occasionally.

But the point is, no man is better than just any man. And this, ladies and gentleman, is why I am eternally single. Because I am picky and refuse to settle for anything less than my ideal man. Yes I know, nobody’s perfect, and I don’t want him to be, he’d make me feel highly inadequate if he was, but there’s certain things I’m just not willing to budge on. Excessive facial hair being one of them, yuck.

Take recently, a work colleague of mine told me that I shouldn’t go for a man who was good looking because I’d never keep him, he’d always have wandering eyes, looking for his equal match in the looks department. Lovely. Thanks for that. What she meant then, was that I should find the most minging man I could pull and stick with him, because at least that way I’d be sure he wouldn’t stray and I could rest peacefully at night.

Now I’m not shallow, ... okay I am a bit, but in my eyes, you have to at least fancy it and half the time, the guys I meet, well I just don’t. The guys I do fancy, they often tend to be a) married, b) taken, c) gay, d) weird, or most often e) massive, massive players who do nothing but stamp all over my heart.

He will come to me one day, and it will happen when I’m least expecting it, so I’m told. There’s a saying ‘one day your prince will come’, well, one day my prince will come, I have faith in this, but he’s probably got lost and is too stubborn to ask for directions, or can’t speak English.

So during this rather extended period of time when I’m single, I’ve made sure I do what I want to do, without having to check with someone else first. I have freedom, I’ve gone on fantastic girly holidays, I’ve learnt how to do cool, new stuff I’ve always wanted to do, like Indian head massage, I’ve read as many books as I’ve wanted, disappearing off into my own world and not having to hold a conversation, I’ve discovered that I love to write and spent hours doing it, I’ve had girly shopping days that have gone on for hours and then extended into nights out, I’ve danced til dawn, and I’ve had time to figure out what I want from life. I’m not saying I actually managed to figure it out, but I’ve had time to if I ever got around to it.

I’ve pretty much been selfish and lived my life how I want to live it. So when the time comes that I find this illusive, possibly illiterate, prince that can’t read a map, I won’t resent the fact that I have too many things left in my life that I still want to do, without him getting in the way. Basically, through doing all this stuff, I basically know who I am and not what someone else wants me to be.

All this ‘I am woman, hear me roar!’ speak doesn’t mean that I don’t occasionally get lonely, and that I don’t sometimes wish I had someone to cuddle up on the sofa with, but then I just cuddle my Jack Russell instead, and he is a constant that will never fall out with me because his football team lost. 

So I say embrace the single life, because it won’t last forever, and from what I’ve heard, being coupled up ain’t really all that either – just think, snoring!

Expand or shrink .....

Shrinking progress
Lost 1lb
Gained 1lb
So all in all ..... uneventful.

What happened to the determination of my last post, I hear you ask. Well it lasted until Friday afternoon then decided to go on holiday until Monday morning - my determination is very much like me you see, addicted to holidays. I was doing well, it was the hideously calorific pizza that did it. I'm allowed 1200 a day - this pizza had 1000 in it alone.

I know, shameful.

But it had to be done.

So now for the wake-up call, and time to step away from the Jelly Babies. There's a reason Jelly Babies are chubby, it's because they're eating their own arm half the time - they're the devil in disguise! They get a bit peckish and decide to nibble their own finger - bam! Another pound gained. Damn you Tesco, with your buy one get one frees!

Anyway, I've discovered something amazing, well actually I didn't, my friend did and shared the knowledge. I am now counting calories instead of points and I'm actually not hungry, which is y'know, useful.

So we'll see how long this one lasts for.

On the plus side, this health kick made me shake my arse a little harder at Zumba, and my oh my did they make us wiggle. I think it might be bordering on obsene, and I'm very sorry to whoever stands behind me but the Lord blessed me with a sizeable behind, and so shake it I must. Good fun though.

I have stalker progress! Yes, he has got the message, he has stopped sending me hopeful emails and I think (think) he's moved on to someone who gives a damn. See, the cowardly approach works sometimes! I did however have someone send me an email saying that I should only reply if I fit into a long list of strict criteria, which he continued to set out quite clearly. I was in a mood, so he got the full brunt of my hormones - don't think he'll be bothering me again either.

See, this is my problem, I'm a cow half the time, I think I scare people off. However I have been sending a few chatty texts to a guy who seems alright, I say 'seems' because I don't really know him, and only just found out his name - which alone sounded alarm bells. Now I swear this isn't intentional, but it turns out he's Turkish, well actually no, he's Kurdish but from Turkey. Sound familiar? I don't know quite how I managed that one. Plus point is he lives in England, so y'know, small mercies and all that. I have to say I'm not feeling it though, I think the ex has put me off for life, I'm not really willing to go through that gut-wrenching agony all over again, at least not quite yet anyway.

And anyway, I've only been talking to him for a day and I'm bored now.

The odd thing is, I complain about being single, but when the chance comes for me not to be, I freak out and decide I'd rather be single after all.

Yes, I know what you're thinking, I'm scared. You'd be right.

Now show me that rocking chair and golf course, maybe a few cats to keep me company.

Werther's Original anyone?

Dastardly deeds are afoot

Mwwwaaahahahah!

That's my attempt at some sort of evil genius laugh by the way, but why you wouldn't have got that the first time is beyond me, honestly, it's quite obvious.

I shall explain.

I have a plan. A fantastic plan that will bring me many things, such as:
a) closure
b) satisfaction
c) baggier fitting clothes
d) eternal happiness

Okay, the last one might be a bit hopeful/borderline crazy but the rest stand.

Yes people, I am on a mega diet. It is day 1, granted, but hell I feel goooood! Okay, I'm ravenous, slightly delerious, and am writing this post purely as a distraction from the contents of the biscuit tin. BUT! But I have stuck to points today! My stomach is gurgling very loudly as I type this, so that's got to be progress. And I will continue to tell myself this until the scales read about 5 pounds lighter than they do at the moment.

Oh good lord, I wish I'd been blessed with thin genes. Alas, I was not, I am doomed to work hard at maintaining a healthy BMI for the rest of my days.

But anyway, back to my evil genius plan.

I have around two months until my bikini is forced into the light of day. That is plenty of time to streamline a little more and achieve said bikini body. However, the plan is about much more than not scaring people on the beach, oh yes, the plan is a form of ..... would you call it revenge? Hmm, maybe, but whatever it is, it'll be damn good.

Oh god, there gurgles the stomach again.

But anyway, the plan, yes the plan is designed to show the boy, yes him again, just what he lost. Oh it will be sweet, believe me. I shall make him rue the day he decided to only very infrequently call me throughout the entire winter, albeit with nice words when he finally decided to get his arse to a computer, leaving me sobbing into my pillow for much of the first few months of it, and then randomly last night when I had a rather ill-timed, and out of the blue wobble. I blame that Pink song, you know, the one I couldn't listen to for a while? Yeah, turns out it's still not so great even now. But anyway, onwards and upwards.

My line is drawn, it is done, but oh, come on ladies, who hasn't wanted to sashay past their ex looking every inch the glossy, groomed, svelte princess? I shall be the one that got away. And matey, you will rue the day, believe me.

I think I might have gone a bit crazy through lack of food. Don't worry though, I'm not going crazy crash diet mad, I know what I'm doing, I've done it before plenty of times, I'm a sensible girl and all that. But give it a few weeks and I'll be a sensible, thinner girl, with new glossy hair, the definite abscence of that rogue spot on my chin and a nose piercing that won't be as red as it is at the moment. I shall be flawless.

Sort of.

The one who made my heart thud and flutter, made me go back to Marmaris three times in the space of a few months, hence making my bank balance look a lot thinner than me, and the one who ruined my Christmas because I couldn't get him out of my head - he shall shake his head and go 'what was I thinking letting her go?' or whatever the Turkish is for that. Because believe me, I've realised this lately, he lost a good 'un, and short of a near miracle in the form of a total personality transplant and a time machine to change all the bad, he lost her for good, and that's really quite sad.

So roll on breakfast time, I'm bloody starving.