Bea Turvey's Blog, page 7

Golden Obsession Teaser #1

January 1st, 2013 and I woke up feeling positive and optimistic.  Usually my resolutions fizzle out by 1pm, but this year my resolution (since LOTR has been re-energised by The Hobbit) is to complete Golden Obsession – which I have been working on for a year!  I am so close to finishing it is embarrassing.  For encouragement I have decided to post teasers.  Here is the first – the Prologue, no less:

‘Stop overthinking it!’

Jeshree’s falsely calm but authoritative voice sliced at the turmoil churning Rachel’s brain cells yet failed to achieve its objective.

Overthinking – Jeshree maintained it led to depression, lethargy and a complete lack of humour which in turn made her own life miserable.  The problem, of course, is that it is impossible to stop thinking about something that’s bugging you.  Jeshree’s solution: make Rachel indulge in some frivolous activity or other that was so outrageous it was guaranteed to shock her into a Good Sense of Humour.  Like skiing at the dry slopes (result: one sprained ankle and a seriously bruised bottom); or paintballing; or kick-boxing lessons; or, her fail-safe Friday night special, hit six bars/nightclubs beginning with a ‘C’ or ‘H’ or whatever initial her latest boyfriend possessed.

From the very first day Jeshree had jumped into her life – which also happened to be the day her mother had slipped out of it – she’d been telling Rachel to ‘stop overthinking’ life.  Her timing had been uncanny.  The doors to the ambulance had slammed shut, the engine started up and the driver had begun to pull away from the kerb…then there she was with a nervous grin, two fat pigtails, and lacking the conscience that would prevent any other stranger from bounding right in.  Introducing herself in a rushed Mancunian dialect and asking Rachel if was still going to go in to take her final A2 exam she’d blithely ignored the shock crossing the other girl’s face and taken control, hauling Rachel along the road, into school, into the exam and through the next few days leading up to the funeral.  Jeshree possessed very few of the more delicate senses, a sense of impropriety being one, and so, seemingly oblivious to Rachel’s continued stunned silence, had nudged her on the path into independence.  She’d been marching her along ever since.

Shaking out the imaginary wrinkles in a pair of pleat-front trousers Jeshree expertly folded them and placed them neatly into their allotted place in Rachel’s already overflowing suitcase.

‘This is it, Duck.  Today you’re gonna meet the Maitlands and who knows what it could lead to.’

Her gleeful friend was right, Rachel had to admit and sighed.  This was it; today was the day; the culmination of over a year of anguish.  Apprehension tightened the muscles in her stomach.

Twisting closed the stretchy bands holding down the clothes within the case, Jeshree uttered a mumble of satisfaction before securing the lid.  She had to lean quite heavily on the top to get it to shut.

‘I am capable of packing my own case, you know,’ mock-grumbled Rachel.

‘Yeah,’ Jeshree rolled her eyes. ‘But this way I know you aren’t taking that icky green tramp-jumper, or those tartan flats.’

‘I love those shoes.’

‘Duck, only you could love a pair of shoes that were rejected at the height of their popularity and sit on the shelf alongside Prince’s raspberry beret.’

‘They’re comfortable,’ she persisted.

‘And when you’re eighty, with a dozen grandchildren and super-rich enough for your insanity to be considered eccentricity I’ll give them back to you.’  Jeshree was grunting the words out by this point as she attempted to hold the lid closed.

Rachel abandoned her last-minute polishing and helped push down the lid.

‘There!’  Her friend announced with a beaming smile.  ‘Your new wardrobe awaits its new home, as do you.’

Rachel picked up the case.  It was heavier than she’d expected and she huffed with the effort, hoping the old locks were sturdy.  ‘Are you sure I need all of –’

‘Yes!’  Jeshree had softly bullied her into not only purchasing a new wardrobe more suited to her new position as assistant-cum-companion to Mrs Maitland, wife to the CEO of the Maitland Corporation, but also dragged her into a salon to have her hair and nails done.  ‘You are not wandering into that place looking like Miss Jean bloody Brodie, all tight-knickered and spinsterish.’

Jeshree’s expressions never failed to bring a smile to her lips and they twitched now.  ‘Tight-knickered?  Are you casting aspersions on my Sloggis?  I’ll have you know they are extremely comfortable.’

‘Duckie, men don’t appreciate comfortable, they want hot and steamy.’

‘I’m going there to work, not-not-.’

‘Where there’s work, there’re men and you, my little mallard, are going to find one that rocks your world and when you do you are going to let him have his wicked way with you.’

‘I’m not going there to be picked up!’

Half amused and half irritated with her friend’s inappropriate ideas, Rachel decided to let the matter drop.  But, of course, that didn’t mean Jeshree would and she had to listen to her friend’s sexpert advice all the way down the stairs, out to the car and during the ride to the train station.

‘Call me when you’re settled in,’ Jeshree muttered urgent last-minute instructions while they hugged across the small space in the front of her Fiat.  ‘Anything goes wrong, you get unhappy, things not working out – call me, or Mam, and we’ll talk.  But you are not, I repeat NOT, to run back without discussing it first.’

Rachel squeezed back in acknowledgment.  Her friend knew her so well.

‘Da sent some Barm cake with bacon,’ they both laughed; her Da couldn’t get over the idea that anyone would voluntarily be vegetarian when there was bacon in the world.  ‘I ate it for you – and our Raf snuck me a bag of maltesers from his stash,’ she whispered conspiratorially, even though her health-conscious mum was nowhere near. ‘I popped it in your bag.’

The thought of Jeshree’s little brother offering some of his precious hoard brought a tender smile to Rachel’s face.  ‘Tell them thanks.’  With a last squeeze she pulled away to drag her overstuffed case from the boot.

With a toot of her horn and a flicker of fingers Jeshree pulled away into the streaming traffic, taking away the excited energy that had buoyed Rachel throughout the morning.  Dropping her waving hand she turned away and, sucking in a deep breath, cut her way through the river of commuting pedestrians to the station entrance and the train that would take her away from London, away from her work, away from her friends, to work at a house she’d never heard of, with a family she wasn’t sure she wanted to meet and, most importantly, to a woman who had the power to obliterate her completely.

I aim to be a little more exposed blogwise.  Happy New Year.  Hope you have a fabulous 2013.  Cheers.

Filed under: New Author

A Golden New Year

January 1st, 2013 and I woke up feeling positive and optimistic.  Usually my resolutions fizzle out by 1pm, but this year my resolution (since LOTR has been re-energised by The Hobbit) is to complete Golden Obsession – which I have been working on for a year!  I am so close to finishing it is embarrassing.  For encouragement I have decided to post teasers.  Here is the first – the Prologue, no less:

‘Stop overthinking it!’

Jeshree’s falsely calm but authoritative voice sliced at the turmoil churning Rachel’s brain cells yet failed to achieve its objective.

Overthinking – Jeshree maintained it led to depression, lethargy and a complete lack of humour which in turn made her own life miserable.  The problem, of course, is that it is impossible to stop thinking about something that’s bugging you.  Jeshree’s solution: make Rachel indulge in some frivolous activity or other that was so outrageous it was guaranteed to shock her into a Good Sense of Humour.  Like skiing at the dry slopes (result: one sprained ankle and a seriously bruised bottom); or paintballing; or kick-boxing lessons; or, her fail-safe Friday night special, hit six bars/nightclubs beginning with a ‘C’ or ‘H’ or whatever initial her latest boyfriend possessed.

From the very first day Jeshree had jumped into her life – which also happened to be the day her mother had slipped out of it – she’d been telling Rachel to ‘stop overthinking’ life.  Her timing had been uncanny.  The doors to the ambulance had slammed shut, the engine started up and the driver had begun to pull away from the kerb…then there she was with a nervous grin, two fat pigtails, and lacking the conscience that would prevent any other stranger from bounding right in.  Introducing herself in a rushed Mancunian dialect and asking Rachel if was still going to go in to take her final A2 exam she’d blithely ignored the shock crossing the other girl’s face and taken control, hauling Rachel along the road, into school, into the exam and through the next few days leading up to the funeral.  Jeshree possessed very few of the more delicate senses, a sense of impropriety being one, and so, seemingly oblivious to Rachel’s continued stunned silence, had nudged her on the path into independence.  She’d been marching her along ever since.

Shaking out the imaginary wrinkles in a pair of pleat-front trousers Jeshree expertly folded them and placed them neatly into their allotted place in Rachel’s already overflowing suitcase.

‘This is it, Duck.  Today you’re gonna meet the Maitlands and who knows what it could lead to.’

Her gleeful friend was right, Rachel had to admit and sighed.  This was it; today was the day; the culmination of over a year of anguish.  Apprehension tightened the muscles in her stomach.

Twisting closed the stretchy bands holding down the clothes within the case, Jeshree uttered a mumble of satisfaction before securing the lid.  She had to lean quite heavily on the top to get it to shut.

‘I am capable of packing my own case, you know,’ mock-grumbled Rachel.

‘Yeah,’ Jeshree rolled her eyes. ‘But this way I know you aren’t taking that icky green tramp-jumper, or those tartan flats.’

‘I love those shoes.’

‘Duck, only you could love a pair of shoes that were rejected at the height of their popularity and sit on the shelf alongside Prince’s raspberry beret.’

‘They’re comfortable,’ she persisted.

‘And when you’re eighty, with a dozen grandchildren and super-rich enough for your insanity to be considered eccentricity I’ll give them back to you.’  Jeshree was grunting the words out by this point as she attempted to hold the lid closed.

Rachel abandoned her last-minute polishing and helped push down the lid.

‘There!’  Her friend announced with a beaming smile.  ‘Your new wardrobe awaits its new home, as do you.’

Rachel picked up the case.  It was heavier than she’d expected and she huffed with the effort, hoping the old locks were sturdy.  ‘Are you sure I need all of –’

‘Yes!’  Jeshree had softly bullied her into not only purchasing a new wardrobe more suited to her new position as assistant-cum-companion to Mrs Maitland, wife to the CEO of the Maitland Corporation, but also dragged her into a salon to have her hair and nails done.  ‘You are not wandering into that place looking like Miss Jean bloody Brodie, all tight-knickered and spinsterish.’

Jeshree’s expressions never failed to bring a smile to her lips and they twitched now.  ‘Tight-knickered?  Are you casting aspersions on my Sloggis?  I’ll have you know they are extremely comfortable.’

‘Duckie, men don’t appreciate comfortable, they want hot and steamy.’

‘I’m going there to work, not-not-.’

‘Where there’s work, there’re men and you, my little mallard, are going to find one that rocks your world and when you do you are going to let him have his wicked way with you.’

‘I’m not going there to be picked up!’

Half amused and half irritated with her friend’s inappropriate ideas, Rachel decided to let the matter drop.  But, of course, that didn’t mean Jeshree would and she had to listen to her friend’s sexpert advice all the way down the stairs, out to the car and during the ride to the train station.

‘Call me when you’re settled in,’ Jeshree muttered urgent last-minute instructions while they hugged across the small space in the front of her Fiat.  ‘Anything goes wrong, you get unhappy, things not working out – call me, or Mam, and we’ll talk.  But you are not, I repeat NOT, to run back without discussing it first.’

Rachel squeezed back in acknowledgment.  Her friend knew her so well.

‘Da sent some Barm cake with bacon,’ they both laughed; her Da couldn’t get over the idea that anyone would voluntarily be vegetarian when there was bacon in the world.  ‘I ate it for you – and our Raf snuck me a bag of maltesers from his stash,’ she whispered conspiratorially, even though her health-conscious mum was nowhere near. ‘I popped it in your bag.’

The thought of Jeshree’s little brother offering some of his precious hoard brought a tender smile to Rachel’s face.  ‘Tell them thanks.’  With a last squeeze she pulled away to drag her overstuffed case from the boot.

With a toot of her horn and a flicker of fingers Jeshree pulled away into the streaming traffic, taking away the excited energy that had buoyed Rachel throughout the morning.  Dropping her waving hand she turned away and, sucking in a deep breath, cut her way through the river of commuting pedestrians to the station entrance and the train that would take her away from London, away from her work, away from her friends, to work at a house she’d never heard of, with a family she wasn’t sure she wanted to meet and, most importantly, to a woman who had the power to obliterate her completely.

I aim to be a little more exposed blogwise.  Happy New Year.  Hope you have a fabulous 2013.  Cheers.

Filed under: New Author

Revolutions

Humanity’s achievements have been the result of not just the opposable thumb,  consider that more a base foundation, but primarily the discovery and refinement of different types of power; more directly our almost instinctive ability to harness, process and utilise it.  One cannot deny the the very first one was fire but the next real big one was steam (let’s not even consider going down the druid route!).  The came gas but that was a mere blip compared to electricity and electricity has remained the most important requirement in today’ world, whether it be generated by oil/gas/hydro/bio/solar or nuclear energy it is the end result of electricity that we have based today’s technological dream upon.  Currently we are still in what is termed the technological revolution.  The Industrial Revolution was a great hulking brute compared to the delicate, almost ephemeral, advancements that are made today.  But the biggest change that is occuring now does not have a physical form; it is social in nature with the advent of social networking and greater online communications.  I have seen children texting each other whilst in the same room.  My husband has even texted me, when we were both at home, enquiring after dinner.  Perhaps worse is that I texted my reply.  It doesn’ stop there.  The original text facility on mobile phones spawned a new language to reduce the number of key presses and when devices with full keyboards (touch-screen or otherwise) came onto the market the new language remained, creeping not only into email communications and social networking but also into written work (an exam board even accepted a text-speech written paper).  Now I see it creeping into language with kids saying ‘kk’ instead of okay, ‘lol’ instead of actually laughing, ‘smiley’ when they want to express a liking for something…  The knock-on effect to social interaction cannot be measured but I see groups of children in the park clustered in groups, heads down, fingers flying over the little gadgets in their palms.  My daughter was baking the other day and every few minutes her phone would emit an annoying beep.  She would check it, reply and continue.  I cannot get her to multi-task in any other area of her life, but her Blackberry (oh yes, there are factions and my daughter is an advocate of the Blackberry regimen) is now an extension of her.  Ask any child in secondary school what they could not live without and I guarantee 80% will say their mobile phone.  The only downtime our poor brains have is when we sleep otherwise we are constantly bombarded with words and information.  This includes when we are playing sports (with the exception of swimming).  Would you believe I have seen a player at a local football friendly stop and answer a call?  I can only wonder how this will future Olympics tournaments.

But we need a new name for this revolution we find ourselves gleefully drowning in.  ‘Technological’ is too restrictive and physical.  Any ideas?

Filed under: New Author Tagged: Change, evolution, technology

Wonderful Words

Quite possibly the nicest thing my son has ever said to me is ‘Mummy, you make my heart smile.’  He was five at the time.  I was so touched I wanted to cry.  Of course, I then had to tell everyone I met that day and if they weren’t as heart-clutchingly swept away as I then that was because they were soulless.  Couldn’t they see what a sensitive little person he was, what a devastatingly eloquent soul he would grow up to be?

He is nowhere near as empathetic as I’d imagined.  Sure, he won’t watch Titanic because it makes him cry, and reading Shadow and War Horse sent him hurtling into my lap for a weepy cuddle, but if I fall on my arse he wavers between concern and laughter and usually falls on the side of laughter, getting impatient if I don’t recover from my ‘owee’ really quickly.  Perhaps it’s because he’s a boy.  My daughter on the other hand was born with a wonderful bedside manner.  In fact, her burning ambition is no longer to be a equine veterinarian, but a counsellor, sorting out other people’s problems for them.  I have no idea how she’ll cope as she has no idea how to distance herself from people’s problems…maybe that’s a girl thing.  She dives headfirst into every relationship, smothering herself emotionally.

My daughter has now stepped into that emotional quagmire called  the teens, while my son is due to start secondary (High) school in September.  With all the problems associated with growing up I decided to attend the ‘Surviving Adolescence’ course run by the school.  It is fantastic.  The biggest lessons learnt, far and away, was from listening to the experiences and trials other parents had been through followed by the course leaders perspective.  However, there was one shining star among all the suggestions and it was brought up by a parent:

http://www.handsfreemama.com/2012/04/16/six-words-you-should-say-today/
 
Read it, try it and tell me how it went.  So simple, so effective.

Filed under: New Author

Crashing the thesaurus

My husband laughs at me whenever I try to insert some teen slang into my sentences because it never comes out right.  The attitude, the tone and, usually, the context is completely wrong.  My children groan, my husband shakes his head and the unfortunate recipient of my mangled sentences smiles bemusedly at me, takes a tentative sip of their drink and furtively searches for someone else to talk to.  However, give me a script and a character to portray and I’ll sink into the part like a warm spoon into honey.  Dramatic characterization is a big stumbling block for many but for me it is a life-saver; not that I attend parties intending to sound like Armstrong and Miller’s RAF boys, but a well-rehearsed joke will slide off my tongue better than one that pops into my head at the last moment.

My daughter asked me yesterday (as part of a school project) how I thought technology had influenced the English language.  Of course, my first question had to be how far back in time did she wish me to go – the invention of the pencil?  The Gutenberg Press?  Perhaps the computer?  I should have known, how silly of me, she was only interested in the latest technology, that which had come into being since her own conception.  It is an intriguing subject and my husband and I were well into the discussion when she decided she had enough material and slipped away.  It is a topic I have delved into (lightly) before.  My friend Penelope Harper wrote a blog entry on the expression ‘loving it’, an expression that also makes me wince.  But the word that consistently tops my weekly ‘Aaaggghh’ list is ‘gotten’.  This weekend I read a book that was littered with the word and so many paragraphs full of Primary School ‘I did this. He did that.  He did this’, that my mind went a little crazy with all the stumbles.  The book?  Inescapable by Amy Bartol, a self-published teen author.  Now, the storyline is your standard teen paranormal romance featuring angels; a ‘hot’ guy’ and (naively unaware) ‘fit’ girl; special powers; a murderer on the loose; a love triangle…you get the picture.  The book would have tumbled quite easily into the top 100 charts if - if - Ms Bartol had bothered to get her work professionally edited.  Don’t get me wrong, I applaud her for getting to where she has with the following she has amassed; it is quite an achievement and the story is appealing.  What I would like to request is please, if you are an aspiring writer, please, please, please, get someone to edit the book.  I love eating, I could cook a passable meal for my family and, if I faithfully followed a recipe, a wonderful one too.  But that doesn’t mean I could open a restaurant without help.  Write, write for all you’re worth, but let someone else perform the taste test. 

Isn’t it?

Please, don’t groan.  My editor’s off sick.

Filed under: New Author

NOT constantinople

Yes, you guessed it, this blog is about an ancient city with beautiful architecture and wonderful people: the great city of Istanbul.  A city coveted by empires; it is brimming over with historical tales of  blood, treachery, treason, revolts, uprisings, the sacking of temples and changes in wealth, status, religion and allegiance.

But we weren’t really interested in all that.  This was a city that had embraced several different cultures and the architecture is wonderful to behold, from the ancient city walls to the higgledy-piggledy houses in different styles and ages that sit shoulder-to-shoulder, packed as tight as eggs within cartons and just as fragile.  I was told that they experience tremors every now and then and they are usually enough to shift the structures sufficiently so as to make them uninhabitable.  So, as you wander around, you will find, here and there, nestled between beautifully kept colourful bijou residences, the odd, ugly building that looks as though it has recently been blitzed or been in a fire.  The government is, apparently, slowly trying to buy up these properties and restore them to their former glory, but in the meantime they sit forlorn and unloved among their brightly plumed neighbours. 

We stayed in the heart of the old city, down a small and uninteresting road, in a wonderful four star hotel called The Hotel Prince.  The small and uninteresting road was a haven – no noisy pubs, clubs or other venues to disturb us at night.  The hotel could quite easily have five stars if not for the laid back attitude, and lackadaisical attention to the finer details.  We liked it – it was elegant yet comfortable.  The room was spacious, with a fine view over the rooftops to the Bosphorus (just).  It wasn’t one of the more popular views – over the Topkapi, Hagia Sofia and the Blue Mosque, but we needed a room for four people which limited our choice.  The staff were friendly, the waiters exceptionally so, to the point where they were joyfully greeting my son in the mornings at breakfast and showering him with kisses – he hated it!  I think it is a general love of children that make the Turks so affectionate as I constantly found myself throughout our trip hauling him away from some stranger that had decided to grab him and hug him.  As we walked along, him holding my hand, someone walking by would just stop and give him a quick shoulder hug.  By the end of the trip he just shrugged and put up with it, I was less nonchalant about the whole thing.   It turned out his birthday fell on the penultimate day of our trip and, after a wonderful Hammam, we decided to have a little nap.  As we lay on our beds (Brian and JJ in their underclothes as it was fairly warm), there was a knock on the door.  I answered it and found the receptionists, hotel manager and waiters with a gorgeous chocolate cake ablaze with candles and sparklers.  They wanted to see my son, so we hurriedly dressed and let them in.  After singing Happy Birthday, right there in the corridor, one waiter was left to serve us.  Our nap went out the window but what a wonderful surprise!

We went out for dinner that night to the Imbat restaurant above the Orient Express Hotel.  It also has wonderful views over the Bosphorus and they also produced a lavish cake.  It was, quite simply the best Turkish meal we’d had in Istanbul and, even with the silver service, proper napkins and bottle of wine, it was less expensive than some of the cafes we’d been to!  When I booked I’d mentioned in passing it was my son’s birthday and lo and behold they put on some birthday music and all the staff arrived with a lit birthday cake.  Smiles all round.

Actually, while we’re on the subject of food, the other fabulous meal we had was at Dubb, an Indian restaurant opposite the Blue Mosque.  Not only was the food delicious and authentic but the decor was exquisite.  I highly recommend this place.  I found out they have an ‘International’ menu as well but I cannot vouch for the quality of that, although if it’s half as good as the Indian then it’s twice as good as the restaurant that sits opposite.  I cannot remember the name of it (something like Pulmire), but avoid that one at all costs.  Their ‘collectors’, as I like to call them – all the restaurants have waiters hovering outside urging you in to try their fare – are very good, extremely persuasive, but the food is dire.  It was refreshing to come across a city and see that the majority of restaurants specialised in local specialities.  We did come across a Burger King, McDonalds and Dominos but they were away from the tourist hotspots.  In fact the only ‘international’ outlet we found at the very centre was Starbucks, but why would you go there when you could experience Turkish tea and coffee in Turkish surroundings?  I’ll tell you why – children!  My daughter saw it and her eyes begged for a Frappuccino.  I’d love to say we tried the Dominos and the Burger King only because we had the kids with us, but I would be lying about Dominos!

It was obvious these familiar outlets were mainly there for the locals as the staff couldn’t speak english, unlike the waiters in the Turkish restaurants, but we managed to get by.  I learnt how to say ‘vegetarian, no meat, no fish’ very quickly.  The very idea of vegetarianism completely flummoxed my husband’s colleague who invited us out for a meal.  I think he regretted the offer as soon as my husband revealed our non-meat diets – in fact, he thought Brian was pulling his leg.  Apparently he’ a real joker. 

I highly recommend the sightseeing bus – take it on your first day there and you’ll not only get a potted history of the place, with distinctive landmarks pointed out, but you’ll be able to estimate distances and get a better idea of how to work out your itinerary.  In fact, I think I’ll do a sightseeing bus tour every time now. 

The city has a very good tram system which we used all the time.  It is regular and well-used but only briefly mentioned in all the guides so I shall explain it here and now.  The system they use is pay-per-trip.  You have to buy tokens – during our visit it cost 2TL per token – from machines which are situated at every station.  One of these is introduced into the turnstile to get you onto the tram station platform.  BTW this is the same system for buses and ferries but they have their own tokens (unless you are doing a ‘Bosphorus tour’ in which case you have to buy a special ticket).  It doesn’t matter how many stops you have to go, 1 or 20, you use one token each trip.  Children who are shorter than the barrier just walk  under it; this is their definition of ‘children go free’.  Every station has a guard so don’t be tempted to cheat.

I loved our Bhosphorus trip, it zigzagged along and was very scenic.  We saw a pod of dolphins each way which was fantastic, I only wish the ferry had slowed down so we could enjoy them a little longer.  We took the official trip which stops on the Asian side for three hours so you can walk up the hill to the castle which has great views of the Black Sea, apparently.  I say apparently as we weren’t aware the ferry would stop for three hours, or that we’d be kicked off and left to the mercy of the restaurant collectors.  I’m just glad we thought to pack sandwiches as, with their captive clientele, the prices were eye-popping.  (There is a particular take-away speciality best described as a fish wrap which my husband recommends).  We didn’t find out about the castle until we were due to board the ferry again, but I’m glad.  I don’t think my knees could have coped with the climb.  It was a long day and, frankly, the children were bored after twenty minutes of beautiful coastline.  Thank goodness for MP3 players and dolphins.

On the attractions I will just say there are queues everywhere.  At the Topkapi you have to queue for tickets, then queue to go in and then queue at pretty much every building inside – if it’s raining, as it was for us, it can be quite miserable, so go armed for long waits, especially if you have children.  If its warm I strongly suggest men have trousers that unzip to shorts as quite frequently they will have to have long trousers to go into certain buildings.  Women should have a shawl to cover their head and a long skirt (unless they’re wearing trousers) to cover their legs. 

The fez: I was seriously confused as to whether this was an Egyptian or Turkish traditional piece of headgear.  A waiter enlightened me: it is originally Greek!  Only the Greeks no longer use it and the Turks and Egyptians do.  So there you go.  I didn’t buy one. 

Turkish Delight: OMG, the real thing in all its glory.  Mounds and mounds of it beautifully arranged everywhere.  At Imbat we had a wonderful peppermint one at the end of the meal, but my favourite by far is the very delicately rose-flavoured pistachio strewn one, dusted with icing sugar.  It looks like a salami, and you could be forgiven for thinking it; it is divine.  I don’t generally eat Turkish delight for many reasons but I cannot keep my hands off this.  Then there are the Turkish sweets – baklava and all the others – which are so pretty, but far too sweet for me.  Go ahead and try some – they all want you to try.  We’d be standing outside shops and the owners would come out with handfuls to tempt us.  You could quite easily walk from the ports to the Blue Mosque munching on all the sweet things that are shoved at you and not eat lunch.

I’ve been trying to find an up-to-date map of the tram system to show the line we took almost everyday but have been unsuccessful.  The most important stops are: Eminonu which has the Bhosphorus ferry to one side and the Spice market to the other, Gulhane which took us to our hotel (and is two stops along), the stop between these two, whose name I cannot remember, has the train terminal and Tourist Information,  is also the location of Burger King et al, and, on the corner of the crossroads, a beautiful shop selling the most wonderful Turkish sweets.  Also near here is one of the oldest Turkish restaurants (whose name I cannot remember) but it was established in the early 1800s and is frequented by locals.  The next stop after Gulhane is Sultanahmet which is the site of the Blue Mosque, Hagia Sofia and Dubb.  One thing I will say about the Blue Mosque is that while it is very lovely inside I was extremely disappointed.  Not only was it crawling with tourists who, despite the signs asking people to be respectful, didn’t have theirs heads covered and were talking loudly, but the central section with the beautiful blue dome was webbed with a maze of wires holding up a lighting gantry.  Two stops after Sultanahmet is the stop for the Main Bazaar (again, I cannot remember the name of the stop!). 

Hammam: our hotel had a beautiful Hammam, lovely and clean, but expensive.  However, the cheaper version we went to, while authentic, left much to be desired in the sanitation stakes (it smelt damp and mouldy).  You certainly get what you pay for.  Hammam etiquette is quite simple (and I can only comment from the ladies point of view), remove all jewellery and undress to the point where you feel comfortable – everyone is giving a special cotton cloth to cover themselves.  Keep your eyes lowered.  If you’ve been to the Sanctuary in London you’ll know what I’m talking about.  After a spell in the hot area (the floor is very hot) where you sluice yourself over and over again with water and get your skin nice and moist, you can have either an oil massage or a peel and foam.  can’t comment on the oil massage as I didn’t have one.  The peel is a brisk rub with a rough hand mitt and you will have to go topless – they rub everywhere!  This is followed by the foam which is a wonderful experience and you are literally covered in a wonderful soft foam.  I’ve never felt so clean.  They also shampoo your hair so, if you’re particular about the brand you use, take yours with you. 

Haggling: it just doesn’t seem right when the price is right there on the item, but go ahead and try it, you never know, you might get lucky.  But don’t be offensive or take offense.  It’s not as bad as the guy from Life of Brian, but close to it.  If you’re unsure just stand back and watch some others before you take someone on.  Even our son had a go.  The golden rule is, if you don’t want it don’t start because if they accept the price you say then it’s a done deal.    They’ll start at the top, so, work from there how mcuh you want to pay, start muchlower and hopefully you’ll both work your way to the middle and the price you want to pay.  The bazaars are the best place to haggle and the Turks are a superstitious people, believing their first customer is their lucky customer, so if you want to buy lots do it first thing in the morning as they’ll be bending over backwards to win your custom. 

Anyway, there is a potted tour guide of a small section of Istanbul.  We had great fun there, I hope you do to.

Filed under: New Author Tagged: ancient city walls, blue mosque, Bosphorus, dolphins, Dubb, four star hotel, hagia sofia, Hotel Prince, Imbat, tram

Lollipop

There is a wonderful new series of children’s books out all about a little girl called Lollipop and her Grandpa, starting with Lollipop and Grandpa’s Back Garden Safari.  Although they are written for the younger age group my ten-year old picked it up and chuckled all the way to school.  It is a wonderful story of innocence and highlights the powerful role Grandparents play in children’s lives.  A book to buy not just for your child, but your father too!

I can’t wait for the next one.

Filed under: New Author Tagged: children's books, Lollipop and Grandpa, Penelope Harper

Bush Craft

Stop!  Don’t close this page.  I promise this is not another blog on bikini-line-topiary.  That comes later…

I have signed my kids up for a bush craft morning at the local nature reserve.  I thought I knew exactly what it was: survival in the woods, Bear Grylls/Ray Mears, eating icky things and other stuff that would make me go ‘Yeuch’ but kids revel in.  But try explaining that to a child without grimacing and saying ‘Yeuch’.  Apparently surviving in the wild wasn’t a clear enough description.  So I decided to use it as a research exercise and directed them to http://www.bushcraftuk.com/ - the great Bushcraft UK website.  On there it mentions wielding knives, making fires, dealing with bites and lots of other dangerous things.  I called up the bush craft people, just to check it would be safe, and guess what?  Apparently they encourage parents to go along too!  I’m no longer so concerned about the safety factor anymore.  To top it off there’s no wi-fi in the woods.

 

Filed under: New Author Tagged: Aston Rowant Nature Reserve, bush craft, survival skills, woods

Designed by artists

Growing up I was forever hearing the comment ‘it must have been designed by a man’ in reference to anything that was used primarily by the fairer sex.  I’ll give you a few examples – the speculum; the pram; the bra (the fastening in particular); stilettos.  The thinking behind the comment was always – if a man had to….then it would be a better design.  Why not design a better one yourself I would always say, thinking not only was it was a most unfair comment but if you think it’s rubbish do something about it.  However, I found myself thinking the exact same thing on Friday as I stood waiting to collect my mother from the Terminal 5 International Arrivals hall.  Aesthetically it ticks many points but for functionality it scores very low, and in this instance I am referring to the hall itself. Not only are there two exits from which your visitor may emerge that you have to keep your eye on but they are a hundred yards apart (or that’s what it feels like anyway); there are two broad pillars placed strategically (or so it felt) within your line of sight; the railings holding back the ‘collectors’ curves so only the people at the very middle can see both exits and, if they are tall (as everyone is in comparison to me), you cannot see past them to the other exit unless you do your Leo Sayer warm-up routine.  In addition to all this the board noting arrival times is very small and only the left half displays the flights.  The right half displays advertisements so I had no idea whether the flight I was expecting was delayed (until I found an official who pointed me to another board at the other end of thehall).  My husband assures me that every five minutes the display changes to show the remaining flights for about a minute before flicking over to the ads again.  There is a very tiny digital display of the time at the bottom right-hand corner of this board, but that is the only clock and one has to be practically under it to see it.  The board I was directed to was near some seating and there is a corresponding one on at the other end of the hall, but it is so far away from the arrivals area there is no way you can see who is exiting.  Also, the boards displaying the flight times are positioned perpendicular to the seating area so you are constantly crunching up and down, hoping no-one takes your seat or removes your bag to blow it up.

The only nice thing is that the coffee shop is right opposite the arrivals area – but again you have to constantly get up to check the board (at the risk of someone clearing away your coffee) and you cannot view the exits from the seating area.  Nice coffee though.

So how would I redesign the area?  Benches for weary souls who don’t want to buy a coffee closer to the arrivals area;  In the baggage hall filter the arrivals towards either one or the other exit and display that on the board; straighten the railing cordoning off the collectors and provide a low-level foot rest all the way along (my feet were killing me after the hour and a half I had to wait); more clocks; change the displays so that flight times are shown more often than ads; adjust the flight time display near the seating area so it faces the seats not the doors – or have a set that faces the seats as well; have more clocks everywhere; change the pitch size of the fonts displaying the arrivals so one can read them without having to stand within three feet – it can get quite congested and makes it so much easier for pickpockets.

There, a few simple changes and it would make a world of difference to the experience.

Filed under: New Author Tagged: Aesthetics, Design changes, LHR; Terminal 5 Internaitonal Arrivals Hall

Clutching at Dreams

I had another one of those wonderful fix-it-all dreams last night where I worked out the solution to a problem that’s been nagging at me for weeks.  It was so deliciously simple I had to go over it again and again to make sure I wasn’t missing something.  Of course it has faded now – as all good dreams do.  I’m awake and trying to remember the solution whilst bemoaning my lazy-sleepy arse for not getting out of bed and writing it down.  At the time I think, ‘I can’t possibly forget this’.  Why do I think that?  People tell me things, ask me to do things, and I know if I don’t write it down I’ll forget.  I will think, ‘I’m going specifically to the shops to get more sanitary towels, there’s no way I can forget them,’ and yet I return home with a bag of paracetamol, mascara, another lipstick, some hand cream, a hand towel and a new shower pouffe, but no sanitary towels.  I return to the chemist.  This happens all the time and yet I still kid myself I can remember things.

I wonder if it is part of the over-the-hill syndrome, the refusal to accept that maybe not everything is working at 100%, or even 50%.  When is over-the-hill nowadays?  If life-expectancy is 80 then is the peak at 40?  Unless the climb is longer than the drop, in which case let’s say 50.  No doubt when I near 50 I shall change that to 60.

At this point in time many of my friends are making some pretty big changes in their lives.  Some are divorcing, others are getting married again and a few have decided to emigrate, whereas I am snuggling further and further into my nest.  Even my nearly-80-year-old mother is gallivanting around the world squeezing every last drop of energy out of her tiring body, being pushed by an unflagging soul.  Maybe it was something I ate, or perhaps  I’m the Ever-ready one-off-use to everyone else’s Duracell rechargeable.

But in my dreams I’m more adventurous, every night I’m off trekking the Himalayas – can’t stand the cold so will never do it in real life; swimming the channel; snowboarding; (horse)riding  across Spain; looking after elephants; teaching English in the Far East; flying, flying, flying.

No wonder I wake up so tired.

 

Filed under: New Author Tagged: dreams, good dreams, memory, remembering, sleeping