the accidental girl

New flatmate comes with baggage. He is the vice captain administrator senior lieutenant social secretary of GLS BLOGS BLOGIQTS (catchy name) which is Edinburgh's finest society covering all alternative sexualities found apparently. Every year, a new letter is added to the title so that at the moment it covers:
Bisexuals
Lesbians
Gay
Intersexed
Queer
Transgendered

..people throughout the 'Burgh. Anyway, here was new flatmate at 10am prancing around in boxers, eating cereal, making sure to put most of the cereal firmly outwith the path between bowl and mouth in keeping with the cleanliness standards already established (see previous post). I, myself, am showering at this point, thinking I could have a nice leisurely breakfast of porridge in front of morning TV then perhaps practise my piano and then tackle the mystery cupboard which appears to be filled with old keyboards and cables. I emerge from the shower at 10:10am and am mildly surprised to find the flat filled with languid men in plaid and plucked eyebrows. An unsociable hour for house calls in a student flat.. I thought perhaps they'd dropped in to say hello and then they'd go. Or at least be offended by my exposed showered flesh and in embarrassment, realised they were intruding and leave but no. They look at me as if I'm trespassing on their patch and demand a cup of tea.

Hurrying to get ready, slightly pissed off that my sacred breakfast time has been thus disrupted, I eventually make tea for myself and concede to fill another cup for languid man no.1. An hour later, they're still there. All chatting in the living room, making themselves at home. Opening laptops and catching up on their gaydar and thesis writing. Realising my hopes of being able to practise my piano have been cruelly dashed, I leave to get a coffee elsewhere.

2 hours later. They're still there. They've multiplied. Lounging over every surface they're all bitching about others and cattily teasing each other. I try to sit in my own living room for a little bit but their open disdain at my owning a vagina is too much and as they pointedly look at each other whilst replying to my questions I get sick of this rudeness and retire to my box bedroom. They eventually leave at 6pm, taking their overdramatic stories and camp squealing with them but leaving in their wake a sea of mess in my (newly cleaned grrrr) living room and a kitchen filled with the remnants of a spontaneous feast of spag bol. Which, incidentally, is apprently better enjoyed when splashed about the floor, stove, surfaces and intriguingly, the vertical faces of cupboards. I thought gay men were supposed to be tidy! The only tidy thing about these guys were their eyebrows and manicures.

My gay best friend commiserated with me. He resolutely hates all the people in the BLGOKAUIJXT society as they're all "southern middle class w*kers" and unfortunately, I have to agree with him. I just really hope the flat doesn't become a drop in centre for all the lonely alternative lifestlye people in edinburgh in need of a good bitch and untidying party. Otherwise I may have to kick some alternative butt.

I am back in Edinburgh. Stepping off the train journey from hell and breathing in the familiar aroma of malt and with the crisp freshness of the town I felt like I was home. Piling up my million bags, I waited for a taxi. I eventually got back to my flat and found it in a state.

Since I was gone, a Brazilian had been living in my room but it seems it was his first time away from home and he had no idea about the small improvements to quality of hygiene like bedsheets, vacuum cleaners and opening a window occasionally. Moreover, my best friend in edinburgh had moved out, taking H with him, and had been replaced by an ex work colleague of mine.

The whole place, once attractive for its spacious, light rooms and clean lines and bright lights had become a hovel filled with mouse shit and mould. Every room had stuff in it. Mountains of stuff. The kitchen was unrecognisable, grimy floors, a Himalaya of dishes in various states of life cultivation and smatterings of mouse shit over every surface. The living room was a junk room, everything had been stashed in there. My piano used as a drinks stand with watermarks on the woodwork and scratches on the polish. The sofa, once cleared of debris, was peppered with extra large mouse droppings and the floor covered in grit and crumbs. The bathroom, normally white, was black and pink with mould, with suspicious brown crusts on the loo seat and pubes on every surface. My room. Small and cosy usually and easy to keep clean (you can touch both walls at the same time if you stand in the middle, stank of sweat and old skin. My mattress smelt horrific and had grey patches where my mattress cover had hols in it, the whole thing was covered in pubes and rice (? why?). This boy had been sleepingfor 2 months in my bed without bedcovers and eating there.. Yuk! The carpet was so dirty it looked light grey instead of a deep royal blue.

I've spent the last 3 days cleaning.. I started with my room. I removed the window from the frame and scrubbed that down. I vacuumed once, twice and then a third time in the corners. I vacuumed my mattress, I dusted everything, I polished all the surfaces and cleaned the mirror. I patched up the cover and febreezed the mattress and made my bed properly. I unpacked all my stuff from storage and moved back into my room and then unpacked my luggage.

Next, the kitchen. I unscrewed all the fittings from teh stove and cleaned them all, there was mouse shit even in the holes under the hob fittings and greasy dust in the knobs. Cleaned them all. Scrubbed all the surfaces, cleaned the dishes, dried the dishes, found new cupboards for them. While I was away, the new flatmate had thrown out all my stuff to replace it with his. I was incandescent with rage- he'd thrown out jams I made with my gran which, if they have a little mould on the top, are fine under the mould- it's what it is to be organic, the rest is preserved in the sugar, he'd thrown out the honey my mum's cousin had made from his own apiary, he'd thrown out the kilo of museli I'd prepared before I left and packed in a tin. He'd thrown out my MARMITE (half full), my sushi kit, my spices from cyprus in 'non-british labelled tins therefore suspicious'. ARGHHHHHHHH. I nearly exploded with anger. He'd been there 3 weeks and hadn't managed to clean anything except for a half hearted attempt to clear out the kitchen which basically resulted in throwing out all my stuff.

I tackled the bathroom yesterday. Bleach everywhere, no more shit encrusted toilet, no more black bathroom tiles, no more pube carpets. He then had the cheek to come home and go "Are you using bleach??? It's so bad! I never use bleach, only milton!" WELL THEN FUCKING USE SOME MILTON AND CLEAN THE FLAT A BIT YOU INCONSIDERATE FOOL. Seriously, no cleaning had been done her for months.... time enough for mice to set up camp in one sofa and the toilet area to look like it had had an accident with a shit filled, backfiring spray can. He lives like an animal and he has the cheek to tell me how to clean?!!
The flat is now tidy, clean and smells normal. His room is still a disgrace, twice the size of mine but you still can't see the floor. I work while I'm here too, having a 6 hour shift per day is no excuse for accepting to live in a slum.

It's time like these that I really, really miss S. At least he used to say thank you when I cleaned the flat, which I invariably did more often as my standards are slightly higher than the average bloke's.

I want to move out.. I don't want to be an annoying guy's mum, cleaner and agony aunt.

I remember now why I moved to Edinburgh all those years ago. I hate London. It repulses me from such a deep and integral part of me that I just feel off when I'm here. The place itself is tarnished and filthy, corroding into an underworld of offensive dirt. The people aren't real.. you get the painfully cool kids who think they're effortlessly different from the rest when in fact they're so caricaturised that it's hard to separate them from the stereotypes before, the wannabe born and bred londoners who are extra bolshy for the sheer hell of it- who act like they own the joint and the rest of the distasteful crowd. Only once in a while do you catch the eye of someone equally lost in such a scene of Dante's Inferno that is the tube and register a mutual humanity in each other. These are the people who are still disappointed in the encroaching rudeness of the masses, the lack of consideration for others, the sheer selfish hedonism displayed by most. It always shocks me when someone less able is surprised that I should let them have my seat. What else am I supposed to do? A young, able-bodied woman shouldn't let an old person stand, however embarrassing it might be to have to address someone on the tube.

It reminds me of my school days everytime I'm here. All the girls comfortable in their middle-class insobriety, spending money like it's going out of fashion because daddy's a banker/lawyer/doctor and can't do enough for his princess. Spending it on drink, cigarettes and drugs, passing pleasures which they'll only piss out, throw up or snap out of in a short time. These girls, with their prejudice and their own rules of cool, who decided, at 14, that the mark of distinction was how many cigarettes you could buy without being IDed, how thin you could get without being discovered, how many boys from the local public school you could suck off without your best friend of the week realising you'd gone with her 'boyfriend'. All these girls, so wrapped up in their shallow existence, the materiality of adolescence while girls like me are stuck at home at the weekend, helping to care for a senile grandmother. Them not understanding that having no money means no money- means not buying clothes (thank god for school uniforms) means not wanting to spend money on temporary pleasures, means not being free at the weekends, or in the evenings because you're working an extra shift at sainsbury's.

All these girls who bully the more unfortunate because they're easily spotted as not 'one of them'. These girls who've become nothing much because they never really worked, who've grown into selfish adults because they've never been forced to see how privileged they are, who are content to live on the surface of life just parasitically being off other people's good nature and hard work. People who've perfected the art of cool, of conforming to what the crowd dictates without appearing forced. Who have the audacity to carry on judging others, patronising those who are less privileged because they assume that everyone wants to be them.

Sometimes, in the sea of people like these- they all seem to love the impersonality and crassness of london- you'll catch the eye of someone who thinks like you, who's developed from years of bullying and know what it is to treat others with respect, who appreciates small kindnesses and you'll know that there's still a spark of life in an otherwise dead sea. London is over, it will self implode from its own greedy cool and when it does, I'll be where the real people live, enjoying their kindness and solidity. If school taught me something, it was to never be sycophantic to those who got ahead by selling their moral and social code.

10 bad things about today:

I have a headache
I have my period
My hayfever has made one eye itchy
I just ate too much chocolate and now I feel kind of sick. Probably related to the first two badnesses.
I haven't been for a run and now I feel too sick
I spent £500 on a plane ticket
My feet are a little sore
There's no bread in his house. I made a loaf yesterday but gave it my friend's mum.
Some little ill educated shithead tried to woo me by taking a good look at my boobs and saying "Girl, you got some nice titties" I told him if he likes them he should see my dick. He didn't get it.
I'm late for my pampering sesh at my pal's house..

Good things:

I made a new friend yesterday despite him being a keen hiker-through-london
My dentist loves me and told me so
I found travel insurance for £50 for obscure countries
I can see
I listened to Carmen
Being on my period makes my boobs look amazing
I still haven't commented on M's blog. Who's persistent now biatch?!
I finished cutting the panels for a new blouse I'm making. Tomorrow, I sew

Wish my headache would go.. I don't get them often so it's horrible.

Tonight is m first night in my parents' home alone. They're both in Cyprus still and I've been otherwise sleeping at m friend's house. It's not being alone which bothers me, I quite like the freedom of being able to skip around in pjs or to use the loo/shower without setting up armed guards outside the door and having to roar "IN A MINUTE" when someone knocks on the door for the 5th time. I just like bathrooms, they're good for contemplating. Even if I'm not actively doing anything, sitting there/standing under hot water lets your mind flow! My parents dont' understand this.. my mother smugly tells me that her showers take 3 minutes and she even turns the water off between soap stages. I then reply that I'd prefer to feel clean than efficient.

Anyway, unfortunately, Tilly the tiger-in-training is on holiday at my brother's flat down the road so I don't even have her for company. She likes sleeping next to humans, or preferably on top of their face which is fine until you breathe in her tail and choke or she kneads your inconsiderately bumpy skull with her epidermic claws. Her favourite game is chase the toes whch involves lots of tail swishing and resulting in a dive bomb towards innocent footies and clinging onto them by anchoring her claws in emulation of Wolverine from x-men.

Point is, she's not here and even she would be nice to have around. Hope I get to sleep quickly so that I don't have to pretend my pillow is an unsuspecting nocturnal victim.

Jetlag. that old chesnut eh.. Here I am, having woken up at 7:30am Cyprus time like I have the last 2 months but wait, I'm in the UK, so I'm awake at 5:30am... all nice and cosy in what seems like a cocoon of duvets and pillows in a little room in south east london. I like small rooms, I feel safer and cosier in them. There's something satisfying about only having room for your bed in what is your bedroom, it adds an extra layer to the three duvets. So, no hurry to move, I lay there for 30 minutes letting sleepiness hum behind my eyelids and my mind have its little half concious wanderings. But I got bored after about 15 minutes.. I'm very bad at staying in bed if I'm not asleep or have company. I'd prefer to get up, and if I'm in the UK, have my cup of tea and my marmite toast. MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMmm so that's wha tI did.. I figured out the gas grill like a big girl and just had the first marmite of autumn (no other word for this temperature). It was heaven. Anyone who doesn't like marmite is a loon. Although my crazy aussie uncle likes his thickly spread with jam which is gross, why pollute the marmite?! I also like marmite on crumpets and with (non cow, obv) cheese. Marmite. Maybe I should dedicate this rambling post to marmite instead of.. instead of what? My waking up? The standards have slipped lately! oops!! I'll find soething exciting to write about soon..
Oh! They're going ahead with the building in Nicosia, when I left, they'd closed off the square in order to start. It's going to make the traffic (already depressing) more of a problem. Ach well, can't fight progress...
Tonight, my pretties, I'm being a culture vulture and going to see a play. Perhaps it'll fuel a culture related post for tomorrow... I'm guessing you can't wait.

So this morning saw MonkeyPie (and Marmaduke) waiting patiently for their plane. Thinking they were being ever so contradictory to the usual and anti-dateslexic, they were proud of being on time. MonkeyPie has a painful history of missed trains, concerts and conferences from mis-remembering the date/time or day. Hence, dateslexia)..
But their smugness was shortlived as they realised halfway to the airport (nice and early to get a good legroom seat for their stumpy limbs) that teh 10:45am time indicated the check-in and not the departure. Conservative at that as the plane didn't take off until 12:45pm...

So. Not only two hours before the flight, but a full four hours before take off. Just for your information, Larnaca Airport is dullsville. MonkeyPie had already invested 30 euros in make up she will invariably not use as it's not the staple kohl and mascara she sticks to usually and had already exhausted the delights of the food court by killing 8 minutes to do a full circle of the area and buy two drinks...
Time well spent. Now MonkeyPie finds herself trying to sleep on a steel bench under the persistent aircon stuck on the thermostat set at approximately 'Arctic level' but a big, rough looking, red rimmed eyed vision of a tattooed visigoth sat down next to her, louning across not one but two chairs, refusing to sit upright, instead, balancing his (probably tattooed) buttocks precariously on the edge of the seat so that he keeps having to shuffle upwards and heavily rebalance.
Fun times!

Let's hope the flight is more exciting. If it's a big plane, I'll get a choice of films! Although, if experience is anything to go by, there wil be the immortal and compulsory screeching human larvae and, invariably, the kickus seatus genome of toddler behind my seat.

As it was, it was a small plane and only "27 dresses" was on. It's shite. No screeching human larvae but then I was far away dreaming monkey dreams for most of teh journey whilst two unfriendly lebanese men sat next to me and promptly ignored all my requests to be let out to pee. Don't worry, there's no dramatic conclusion although I may have cystitis from being forced to hold in complimentary water, pepsi and then a bottle of vinegar red wine, a clandestine cabernet sauvingnon.

ALhtough I felt very exotic speaking to the cabin crew in greek and having yukky men hold up the entire plane to let me out of the aisle even after I insisted that I had no reason to rush as the first off the plane just has to hang around the luggage belt like a wally.

MonkeyPie has landed safely in London and is currently being well cared for by her pal as MonkeyPie Snrs are still in the land of sun. Maybe I'll go and see my brother tomorrow, he sounds quite sad..

Bad news monkeyophiles. I had to run off from my last afternoon of work, trying not to cry (it was quite emotional really) to go to an optician's appointment.

It is a sad sad day. I haven't been in two years and lately though that I've been squinting more whilst driving....... I'm BLIND. That'll be why I nearly ran over those kids playing traffic chicken in the parking lot and in fact, Cypriots are amazing drivers, I've just been confusing their cars for the parked ones.

Ok, not quite that bad but still pretty bad. Enough to get new glasses (hurrah! I can look like my inner self- I wear some now when I'm not using suction powered lenses but they're not serious enough).. I've gone down a whole point and a bloody half in one eye!! No wonder I couldn't see a thing. The other eye's ok. Not quite disabled yet. And annoyingly, not enough to have to have a doggie.

Come to think of it, marmaduke wouldn't like a dog.

Ah.. bad times. The only good news being that I chose my thesis topic afte rmuch deliberation. 1st choice- long span roofing solution for historic structures (a la british museum type jobbie) and next 2 choices to do with FRP and their effect on shear in concrete which, as I am Geek numero uno, interests me more than you'd like to know. One of my favourite moments in my career at uni was making my own concrete using BRE specified design. It were fun and then I crushed it which were funner. All I need to do now is to find a partner to work with. Trouble being, the boys are deeply suspicious of us lady engineers. One particularly loathesome wonkface actually snatched the calculator out of my hand and said "Now now, leave the proper calculations to the men, you can make the report look pretty afterwards if you like" "No I f*king don't like you miserable little fartmouth, I'll do the calculations and you can sit there and plait your ginger facial pubes..." I said in my head.... My irish matey who's very pretty and otherwise intelligent thinks he's a hoot but then her type is what I'd write off as a wonker so maybe he's perfect for her.

Ah I have digressed. Anyway, with my new glasses I can look intellylekchual and kleva and maybe the boyz will let me play with their sums.

Night night xx

Ahhh goodness me!! I'm about a zillion pounds poorer.. Applied/paid for visas this morning:
belarus
russia
kazahkstan
china

Am 359 pounds lighter..... then I have to buy my actual tickets. And my flight home... EEK!

Saying that, I got another pay rise 2 weeks work = 700 euros... not too shabby.
Shabba!

I'm glad I'm not going to mongolia. In Mongolia they eat horse, cured in soured milk. Me and Marmaduke Periwinkle-Smythe can eat caviar jacket tatties in russia, er.. camel burgers in kazahkstan(?) and rice in china. I shall duly record all our meals because I know that's what you're interested in.

It's all go here in monkey land. The tenants have signed and agreed to move out. I've designed a sketchup model of what the building will look like.. so far I only have the ground floor:

Anyway, the idea is to get people interested in the refurb and some potential tenants. Then I'll model the inside to their specs. Turfed out the oldies with 32 months' rent paid to them. One has prostate cancer the other's had major surgery, they're both in their late 80s, I'm not being horrible.... am I? Anyway, it's their fault for making it look like a slummy warzone.

So, three sleeps until I'm back in cold UK. I ran out of FrizzEase some time ago (if you don't know what this is, then you're a man) essential kit for me especially as my hair is the bad kind of wavy. The kind that frizzes up into pube like fuzz if I don't tame it a little. Like now, for instance:

I also appear to have a mysterious growth on my usually flat belly. Is this a phantom pregnancy I wonder....

Ah good times.. right, well back to sketchUp.... I won't be on properly until next tues so y'all have a lovely weekend and I'll let you know if I pop out the immaculately conceived monkeybaby by then. I shall name it Marmaduke Periwinkle-Symthe and we'll go shooting and horseriding and sneer a lot and laugh like this: HAW HAW HAW. It'll be magic.

Ok.. too much coffee...

I don't know how many of you have facebook. If the hype is anything to go by, all of you have..
Anyway, on the phenomenon which is the book of face, there is a snazzy little application called graffiti. To which I am now addicted. Leaving pishy scrawlings on the walls of friends such as the following:

It's eating into my blogging time...

..or just one French. And she's not invading so much as coming to stay. Yes, mummy MonkeyPie will be on Cypriot soil after only 4 hours of delay.
Trouble is, MonkeyPie Snr and Jnr were all set to rush off to Larnaca at 3:30pm to be ready to pick her up in our flash tin on wheels. It had been scrubbed and polished, filled up with the finest unleaded with lead subsitute added because the MonkeyMotor is an old car and pollutes the world with its dual cylinder action. Then we receive a text that she's 4 hours delayed but the cyplon website insists that the plane has taken off and is somewhere over the balkans as we speak.....
We call Mrs MonkeyPie but to no avail.. has she taken off? Hasn't she? Is she over the balkans or merely sipping scalding piss tea in Heathrow? Anyway, I've given up on the suspense and am back at work. Which was the right decision as the very efficient website has just reloaded and said that the plane is only just embarking (after being in flight southwards for 3 hours).

Tonight calls for a trip to Larnaca and a visit to a good friend who's terribly depressed at the moment and falling on old vices (including some very hard ones, even in the eyes of a hardened Edinburgher). She's kind enough to give me her piano... I shall have to find a way of appearing grateful without being annoying.

My last greek lesson tomorrow night.
My last day at work on Friday..
My last beach lounging on sunday...

Cyprus never fails to heal me. I arrived cynical and broken and deeply unhappy and leave as myself, rejuvenated and calm. Who knows when I'll be back... hermitude and sunshine is fine tonic for those who are hurt by other people. I've regenerated the bits of my soul I'd offered up to the greedy Gods of devotion, this time I'm nobody's fool. However much of a good man they may be.

Cyprus is an ancient country packed with history. In the sense that nearly every mediterranean based empire (since about 4th C bc) has invaded and ruled for a short while. Their presence is marked by their style in building (still evident in the numerous ruins and surviving artefacts) including the old city walls of Nicosia. These are wonderful in that you can see, quite clearly, the byzantine beginnings of the wall with the venetian influence at the tops. Like a chronology of invasion.. They have survived, more or less intact, for the last few thousand years and define nicosia. They span further than just the north south divide- but also time. They hark back to an era of protection and unity. Nicosia, as I'm sure most of you know, is the only divided capital city in Europe. A very sad situation but one which has no obvious solution on the horizon.

Anyway.. if you've been to old town nicosia recently, you will have noticed it has become something of a slum, inhabited only by old citizens or families of immigrants (illegal or otherwise) and starved cats. People only go in because some areas have nice bars, chilled restaurants/cafes and the seedy red light district. Where, if you walk down the street, women in doorways display the goods whilst lounging, unladylike, across chairs.

Citizens have since created their own town centre just south of the walls. But the fact remains that these walls are of cultural and archeological importance. In a plan to revamp the entrance into old town (eleftheria square: liberty square), the council launched an architecture competition. Now, bear in mind that within the walls, all the buildings are built close together along narrow roads (usually one way as they can't accommodate more than one car). The whole thing is a mishmash of traditional buildings:

and 60s concrete heaven... but still, all very higgedly-piggedly and charmingly mismatched.

So! This architecture competition to renovate the square was won by none other than Zaha Hadid. An architectural goddess if you want beautifully sculptural pieces, which occupy a space with brooding contemplation. And I like her design- which is like a lap of concrete (though it doesn't look like concrete- it's sensitively disguised with a park area and cafes etc) which pours gracefully from eleftheria square on top of the city walls, over the walls and down into the moat, which is converted into a public park. How they'll keep it a green belt with the drought crisis (they import water from Greece on container ships) is anyone's guess. The problem is:
a) The sheer size of the lap hides and detracts from the symbol of nicosia- the walls.
b) The structure is built on ground which is supported by these ancient walls, will they deteriorate over time from such a huge structure?
c) The design doesn't complement the surrounding buildings. I'm not saying we should mimic their rundown appearance, just perhaps be a little more sensitive in the design.

Though of course, Hadid herself has never seen Nicosia in the flesh, how could she know all this? Some of her minions looked at the site and just ok-ed all her ideas without considering it properly.

Though of course, perhaps it's this stubborness to move on from history which keeps Cyprus shackled to its own segregation so we should ignore the symbol of the city walls and build around them, over them and before them. Maybe only with this courageous break from stagnation through public architecture, can we hope for a different future in Cyprus. Perhaps this spilling over the old walls is a symbol for the breaking through of new ideas, the refreshment of perception and evetually, if the ancient city walls can be breached in such a way, maybe, just maybe the metaphorical wall between turkish cypriots and greek cypriots can be destroyed.

Argh. I'm so bloody bored today.. I had the worst night's sleep ever yesterday. One of those nights where you're exhausted but you count the hours that you've not been asleep until you realise with dismay that they outweigh the hours you might sleep. Handily, the flat here has an old wall clock which chimes out your restlessness every quarter hour.

Anyway. Today I am brain dead. I tried doing another topographical thingummy and caught myself staring with open mouthed glazedness at the screen of numbers. I must have been frozen like that for a good few minutes. Quite the unanimated sloth today.. I keep writing shite on here and being overly affected by M's uncharacteristically sarcastic comments to my opinions on things on his blog. I comment on his things about once a fortnight- he doesn't know about this blog because I cherish my relative anonymity so that real people don't know I'm crazy until they see me during a full moon- anyway, the poor soul seems to think that it's quite dedicated commenting. What he doesn't know is that I write about 8094.52% more shite on here than on his, and that I'm a furtively serial commenter on the NYtimes blogs. Anything to take up the time between my warp speed completion of projects.
So, problem - his blogs are actually insightful and a hell of a lot better written than mine so I read them to a)make sure he's not dead and b)provide a little correspondence so it doesn't feel like he's writing into the ether. But now that he's mentioned that it's nice I "comment so much" (i.e. about 3 times) I feel disinclined to comment again especially after he was particularly savage about a valid point I made on westernisation.
ah well. He's a knob sometimes.

I was excited about the prospect of being back in Edinburgh in 2 weeks time but now it seems that V is expecting a reassessment of our non-relationship. I'm still no closer to fancying the pants off him, although I have garnered a lot of respect for him.. but now I'm scared that I have to be brutal. It goes against my kind gentle side.

Ok, enough procrastination.. greek lesson time!

Sainte-Moi

Ne penses-pas a mes bleus,
mes couleurs..
mes joies.
Ne penses-pas a ma malheur.
Du moment que c'est toi.

The Future is a bra

This weekend saw Daddy Monkeypie and myself drive off to Kyrenia for the weekend. After an uncharacteristic energetic decision to go for an early morning jog, we went to the Hurricane coffee shop for a turkish cypriot coffee and a 'croissant'. Now, when you or I hear croissant, we immediately think of continental breakfasts and the buttery, flaky crescents traditionally served in france. Here, a croissant is an altogether more interesting cake.. flaky and buttery yes, but like a bent sausage roll and filled with a walnut, almond and rose water paste and absolute heaven.

Then it was time to cross over. Since they opened up the buffer zone, it's far easier to cross than it used to be. Before the days of universal crossing, we'd have to ask the cheif of police for special dispensation to see friends on the turkish side. Now, it's easy- you hand your passport, they record your date of entry, you get some car insurance and off you pop, under the surveillance of UN snipers in bulletholed houses and through a minefield, leftover in case the Turks decide to re-invade when they're bored of the ceasefire.

30 minutes later, we reached our house. Now, I love this house, it's been one of my only constants in a life that involved quite a bit of moving. Built by my grandad back in the late 60s, it feels like home. The neighbours have known us since the beginning so it wasn't unexpected to be delayed on our way to the beach. Packing up the car with our swimsuits and compulsory backgammon, we could hear the sounds of lunch from our neighbours house. Out pops a head from the kitchen window "Oh!! MonkeyPies! You have come! Welcome! Please join us. Dolma, you like dolma?"
And before we can refuse, we're sat in the kitchen with two small boys gravely eating their beans and yoghurt, my friend Fatma telling me about why she left Turkey after only one year of study (it's the sudden headcovering clamour which chased her out) and her parents beaming with pleasure as they heap dolma and yoghurt onto our plates.
- For those of you who haven't experienced the delight of ottaman cuisine- dolma is a stuffed vegetable, usually vinegar soaked vine leaves but sometimes marrow flowers, stuffed with rice, onion and lamb. It is delicious and when made properly, one of my favourite dishes. IT goes well with yoghurt but then it's the custom in greece/turkey to eat nearly everything with an accompaniment of yoghurt.

We leave a little while later, waddling towards the car which I fancy groans a little more than usual when we sit down. My plans of looking like an underwear model on the beach today have been scuppered by the generosity of friends! Nevermind, I'll look less alessandra ambrosio and more arnie in drag.

Highlight of the beach- absoluting thrashing MonkeyPie Snr at backgammon. Two doubles and then two single points later, I emerge 6-1 victorious! Hurrah! I haven't lost my touch!
SEcond highlight of the beach- our waiter, Sam, who seemed to think it was appropriate to linger too long at our table and ask, forthright, if I was Snr's daughter. Upon confirming the fact, all the staff seemed to suddenly get into a flurry activity. Possibly money exchanging hands at the slight disppointment that he wasn't a pimp with his youthful lover. Sam then asks Snr if he'd like to go to a restaurant with him that evening (possibly now because Snr looks young free and single as I'm not his concubine). My father turns down his interesting offer but Sam is not to be thwarted.
"When are you leaving?" He asks.
"Oh, tonight I'm afraid"
"Well, you have time for some drinks, yes?"
"No, I'm afraid not, next time though, that would be fun"
"Ah! Next time? No, you come tonight, I show you Lemon Tree restaurant. We eat fish, meat, sandwhich, whatever you like"
"No, no really, we'll be leaving straight after the beach"
"Where you stay?"
"Kyrenia"
"It is near, you have time for some drinks"

...and on it goes. A bizarre battle of invites where we never really established why he was so taken with us. My father was convinced it was because Sam wanted me (it must be the dolma belly) I was convinced that he was unnaturally over-interested in him. Perhaps he was looking for a sugar daddy and the speedoes nailed the deal.

Anyway, this was all over the tea we'd been served. MonkeyPie Snr is tahrribly british and must have his tea at 4pm. Metal tea pots are the worst invention. Especially when the tea bag is served outwith the teapot forcing you to deposit the teabag into the pot yourself, this of course, when the lid of the teapot is approximately the temperature of molten lava.

WE finally rolled home, browned and dozy from the sun. A spur of the moment decision to pop into Metin's house to say hello (our other neighbour- a biblically proportioned butcher with hands like the average sized breezeblock and a swollen belly which wouldn't look out of place in a maternity ward for quadruplets.) leads to him insisting on providing dinner. Out pops his hardworking wife, a miniature woman who probably weighs the same as one of his forearms, laden with salads, houmous, olives and pilaf. Metin is an old-school cypriot- he speaks turkish (evidently), english and greek with a smattering of pakistani and arabic shoudl the need arise. His wife and daugthers don't speak english though so the evening is made up of english and my bare bones turkish which goes far enough to make them laugh and to receive my thanks for a delicious meal.

Word got out that I read palms.. I'd read another neighbour's palm some two years ago and apparently some things have been true to form so the after dinner entertainment was me reading each palm in turn in the poorly lit garden.. I don't usually like reading in front of people- mostly because one palm will be better than others and people will feel hard done by. This time was no exception. I first read Aisha's, hers was a good palm- full of happiness, reward for hard work and love. Then her surlier sister sat down and thrust her palm forward. her's was less fortunate, tinged with the saturnian qualities of the depressed and with only girls on the horizon (bear in mind in islamic countries, a boy is considered above a girl in long term value. Not that a girl is any less loved but a son is always coveted). Anyway, the public nature made it all a little embarrassing so I jsut left out the bad stuff, I'd rather look like the charlatan I am when it comes to these things than be proved right and upset people too soon.

We finally rolled home after one raki too many. I fell into a deep sleep only to wake with a start at around 1am thinking world war III had broken out or that turkey was invading. All I could hear was the reverberating crash and boom of (in my sleep addled mind) atomic bombs and the chatter of machine guns. I was so convinced that I refused to go to the window to check, thinking it was safer to be behind half metre thick stone walls. A voice in my mind told me it was fireworks.. but what business did they have making such loud fireworks last for so long? Needless to say, i survived the deadly fireworks otherwise I wouldn't be here writing.

So all in all a good weekend.. back at work with a headache (probably from imaginary shrapnel lodged in my brain) and the thought that Mummy MonkeyPie will descend upon cyprus in 2 days. I am very happy about this. She lists in my top ten top people ever. Possibly at number 1. She's amazing, were she not my mum, she'd be my bezzie mate coz she's kool and the gang. True story.

Where heaven is found in the Shia mountains

Daddy MonkeyPie and I set out to replenish our culture metre which has been sinking a little low lately. Cyprus hardly ever has live music let alone classical music of any reasonable repute. It does, however, have very good bouzouki and classical guitar which I personally love as it reminds me of being little and listening to my grandfather play spanish pieces in the cypriot sunsets over long honey coloured summers.

Schubert and Neilson open air concert in ancient Olive grove! Promised the ad in the paper. Picturing a cellist up a gnarled old tree with a violinist squawking away in a neighbouring branch, i had to go. If anything, to dispell the image but also to prove that perhaps Cyprus does have a little musical culture. Even though the only famed musicians currently include George Michael and Peter Andre so all a little suspect really. The directions we were given by the woman in charge of distributing the tickets (a sort of New Age type, looking distractedly at your aura while you try to hand over the money). "It's very simple, it's the 11th exit off the motorway and you turn right until you see lots of cars."
We duly headed out for the 11th exit with my Greek teacher and her children in tow looking for lots of cars.
No olive trees in sight..

10 minutes later. Still no olive trees.

We stop at a house in the foothills to ask for directions to Caro's house (this is how addresses are done- there's no street names or house numbers, it's just Caro's house, in the olive grove, right after the motorway junction). The inhabitants turn out to be German but they still know exactly where his house is which surprises me as German's tend to require precise timekeeping and accurate, consistent labels. Maybe they've lived in Cyprus too long.

5 minutes later, lots of cars.

Hurrah! And, sure enough, olive trees (shia is pine country, it's surprising to see olive trees).. lots of well heeled cypriots milling about and the setting couldn't have been more misleading.
Yes, olive trees but this garden is a landscape architect's wetdream. Echoes of Mies van de Rohe in the rectangular and very linear small house and in the shallow quadrilateral pools of water and channels running throughout the plot. Delineating garden 'zones' with a beautiful candle lit island in the middle of the largest pool piled high with squishy cushions and accessed by smooth flat stepping stones. The olive grove after the house falls away sharply and the architect made the most of the drop to build an eternity pool at the edge so you feel like your bathing in the view of the mountains commanding the sight of the valleys below.

The octet were placed on a podium before the pool, with the uplighting creating a soft and dreamlike glow. The setting was beautiful but completely wrong for nielson and then the schubert over long and not as exquisite as it can be. A response to beethoven's 7th, the piece had 6 movents and where the 2nd movement let the violins be melancholy and in part, achingly beautiful, the other movements weren't successful. Fortunately they ended on a rondo, waking up the dozy audience and preparing them for their cheese and wine reward.

The best bit of the night was definitely seeing the house and gleaning ideas for what I'd do if I were to move to Cyprus later on. The music was disappointing but then being brought up on concerts and chamber orchestras in london, vienna and paris, moving in musical circles where you listen to the musician's musician inevitably makes you a snob as it conditions you to appreciate the very best and be devastatingly critical of the so-so.

Perhaps Cyprus isn't the place to go for musical education but the olive groves are beautiful.

Hmm.. two blogs in one day. Both at work.. Well, my sections are a little difficult, mostly because I'm meant to be indicating two directional inclines. Which is a bugger on 2D.. that, and it's Friday and I'm a little tired.

Also it'll be the weekend tomorrow and I'll be off to Kyrenia to laze about in hammocks, drinking cold beer and to swim in tepid waters having imaginary fights with sharks. Or take to riding a motorbike under water (see mjohnson's blog ). Perhaps with more clothes on though. My white bits are so white that the reflected sunlight would probably make the mediterranean evaporate within nanoseconds.

Hopefully I'll avoid Maximus, the overfriendly restaurant manager who asked for my hand last time I was there. If you do find yourself in Kyrenia harbour- he's in the last restaurant of the harbour, just before the wall juts out to the sea. If you're under 50, he'll love you forever. Although apparently my unique selling point was my "cindy crawford smile" which was sweet of him but I think if you asked him to name 3 supermodels/miscellaneous beauties he'd say "cindy crawford" and then be silent.. she's the one-size-fits-all model in these areas. Mostly because she's brunette and they're untrusting of blonde or red pubes.
Here's max taking liberties by sitting on my knee. Uninvited, I ought to add, and my pal sums it up nicely in the background there..

Ah.. fun times. So, tonight is an open air concert in an orchard. Sounds pretty and a bit of Schubert never harmed anyone I suppose.. And tomorrow the wilds of the Turkish Annexe. Until Monday, cheerio..

Operation Share Flat With Daddy MonkeyPie is going quite well. These things generally do because MonkeyPie Snr and Jnr are quite similar in many ways. Apart from the characteristics inherited from Mrs MonkeyPie, which infuriate MonkeyPie Snr to no end. Certain 'looks', a tenacious stubborn streak and an unwillingness to co-operate when wronged comparable only to a cow resolutely determined to not go down those stairs.

Anyway, yesterday saw the beginning of the seasonal backgammon tournament (called tric trac or tavli over here) with me flexing my withered strategy muscles and dusting my dice luck to a spectacular conclusion where I was fairly annihilated 5 games to none. My ego wounded, we moved onto Piquet (a card game no one else in the world apart from MonkeyPie Inc seem to play). Which I promptly lost at as well.

Nevermind. I'd made my favourite dish of baked aubergines so dinner cheered me up no end. Followed by a late night excursion to the cinema to see The Crystal Skulls film which was quite disappointing. Especially as a die hard Indy fan. This stems a little from MonkeyPie Snr looking like Harrison Ford's double, if a little less bulky and a lot more international. It wasn't up to par to the old ones which were lot more charming in their unbelievable conclusions, this one was just plain silly.

The flat is cleaner than it's ever been thanks to the meticulous scrubbing action of a toothbrush. I kid ye not- an actual toothbrush. Kim and Aggie would smile beatifically within these four walls. Happy and at peace with their bleach.

I've spent the last day trying to design drainage levels for a warehouse I'm in charge of. It's trickier than it sounds, especially when your plot is the shape of a bucket. Finally cracked it today and I've spent the last hour drawing pretty elevations and sections to show the undulations of the earth below and where my happy backfilling will be. At the moment, pretty much everywhere....

Right! Off to lunch... perhaps I'll treat myself. Have a tomato in my salad. Good times! I should, really, be looking like skeletor by now but my damn amazonian tendencies just won't budge. With or without tomato.

No boiler invariably means no hot water. So, freezing cold shower this morning but when coupled with a morning temperature of 35 degrees C, it's not so bad Actually, it's even quite nice to have such a cold shower when you can't otherwise shake the veil of hazy tepidity ever present on your skin.

Daddy MonkeyPie, as some of you keeping track of this poor excuse for a blog know, has descended upon Cyprus. My initial attempt at 'cleaning' read: dusting, bathroom scrubbing, vacuuming and bleaching kitchen, has gone relatively unnoticed with the statement "Right! i'm going to clean this dump to surgical standards!" With my face the picture of incredulity as he laments the state of the place. It does get dusty though, it's the kind of country where you need to clean/dust/sweep everyday to keep it sparkly. Not something I bother with. My style is more relaxed until I get the Urge and then it's death to all dust motes.

Irritatingly, I appear not much darker when next to A4 paper MonkeyPie Snr. I've been here 1.5 months and I still only look like a slightly dirtier version of my former self. I suppose I should be glad I won't die of skin cancer. Except I probably will due to my over zealous 2nd degree burns in my youth. Somehow I'm reluctant to shrug and say "In for a penny, in for a pound" when it comes to cancer....

So now the flat is so clean you could eat off the floors, if you wished, which I don't but anyhow. The shopping has been done and despite strict instructions on the list, it was promptly ignored so all the wrong produce has been bought. Not that I'd care but I'm allergic to cows' milk and the things I'd requested were sheep/goat produced amalgamations but the contents of the fridge are resolutely cow-orientated. It's the thought that counts I suppose, he did try, which is nice. The nicest thing is having company that doesn't mind coming on my runs with me- although our paths diverge as I go for the hour long circle of the park and he does the 20 minute one, having fresh fruit smoothies made for me when I wake up and even porridge!! Very well looked after which takes the edge off not having the right yoghurt bought. Ha.. i sound like a selfish brat! I would be if it wasn't that cow's stuff makes me come out in a rash, promptly vomit and suffer debilitating cramps for 24hrs. Attractive, trust me.

Can't believe my purgatory is nearly up! London in two weeks time.. back to civilisation and then back to working as a sous chef, adding to the burns on my paws from crazy sunday shifts. Hope I remember how to cook, I've been eating salad for so long and barbequeing that I've not seen a pan since edinburgh. I don't really know if I want to go back, the only things I miss are my piano and a few of my friends. I've been offered a permanent position here at the heady wage of 2000 euros a month (a princely sum in cyprus) but then I remember that I really ought to graduate one of these lifetimes...

Oh and, overnight, about a million profile tags. Don't fully understand the concept of profile tagging just yet but at least the world appreciates that I do, in fact, brush my teeth (apparently). My dentist loves me.

So a girl found a baby bat sleeping in her bra.. Apparently it was curled up in the padding pocket of the 34FF bra, sleeping and occasionaly snuffling about. What's a girl who wears 34FF doing with pockets for extra padding?!

I usually think bats ('specially teeny ones) are quite sweet. I wouldn't wreak carnage on them like I do the micelets in my Edinburgh flat for example.. but then imagine looking into your bra and having this stare back out at you:

I think the whole thing is suspicious. It's obviously not an innocent stowaway. Just the reincarnation of a boobophile wanting to snuggle up to some doughy young flesh.

For risk of sounding like an ideological and sentimental romantic (as far as building can allow) I love love love south american engineer/architects simply because, especially the one I will use as an example later, they make incredible beauty from the most deprived (comparatively) of conditions. Perhaps it is born from a need to 'make do' coupled with the determination and deeply instilled sense of architecture of European history.

Anyway, one of the people I most idealise in an engineering sense: Eladio Dieste. A Uruguyan prodigy of brick. Seriously- the most amazing structures with the most modest of materials, the humble hand made brick.

Shelter for gas station: The Gull. One brick thick shell vault... with one tiny column to hold it up. The man's a genius!!! Brick is a surprisingly good choice as it soaks up the mortar well and lends itself to double curvature with relative ease.

above and beyond the call of duty.. making a rose window out of brick. Again, one layer thick, built on pre tensioned steel rods but frankly, amazing. The final effect is that of floating hexgonals (the sunlight renders the steel invisible.)

And this, a water tower he designed.. it's more impressive when you think that they didn't have the use of cranes etc.. that it took a team of about ten men with only wooden scaffolding to build a hugely tall structure which doesn't buckle under it's own slenderness.

Anyway, he's better known for his shell structures- gaussian vaults in particular. Beautiful, wave like structures perfectly resisting buckling through their own double curvature. They're engineering mastery, take my word for it.

So. One plan is to move to an underdeveloped country to make a name for myself. It's too difficult to be a virtuoso designer in the age of computers and massively complicated teams of engineers for hugely complex buildings designed by multinational-trans-global-partnerships in some 21st century Tower of Babel. Besides, Engineers never get the credit, it's always the bloody architects. Case study: the Millaut bridge. Who designed it? Foster I hear you say? AH, so he personally did all the clever calculations for such a tall and slender structure did he? And I suppose he also determined the road slab should be rolled onto its column supports as oppose to built straight onto them?
Especially where shell structures, large span structures and bridges are concerned, it is the playground of the engineer. Wish the architects would stop poking their noses into it, choosing the facade or the colour of the stays and then calling it their own.

A whole line of events discovered from one simple *snap*:

Late for work again, shit.. couldn't wake up this morning, mostly because I hadn't set my alarm but also because I've been sleeping really badly. Ghosts of past memories wait until night to resurface and enlarge grotesquely into weird parallel dimensions. I can't wipe them from my mind and then I fall into granular unconciousness made up of segments of what ifs and might have beens.

Stumble around the flat to make sure everything is tidy. Not up to dad's OCD levels of microscopically-clear-of-debris but it'll do. Pick up my handbag to leave for work. It falls off my shoulder.. what the hell? The strap has snapped. Shit. Now really late for work.. where's that other handbag, the one my mum keeps in the cupboard. Ah yes, the cupboard under the boiler.
Open cupboard, yes, there it is. Reach for bag. Funny, it's soaking wet! Wonder when that happened..
Hang on.. it shouldn't happen. Not in an cupboard.
Shake sleepiness from brain.
Fuck!!! The whole cupboard is soaking- water everyone. Fucking Noah's ark has to be built.. Quickly turn off water at mains! Easier said than done, move fridge (heavy), open trapdoor- reach in and try to turn tap (stiff). Done.
Come back and investigate cupboard. Bag, soaked. Other bags, soaked. Mum's shoes, ruined.. not only ruined but the trainers make surprisingly good buckets. carry them gingerly from cupboard to sink and empty out size 6s' worth of water. Come back to get sandals.. cork heels make very good sponges. tip all spongey shoes into bag and out onto terrace to dry.
Shelves still dripping- also warped and expanded from their shower. Hope steel reinforced shelf holding tank doesn't fail. Get cloth, soak maximum. Still dripping. Run hot water tap in bathroom until none left.. only lasts about 4 minutes. By my estimations, a cubic metre of water has been poured over my mother's accessories and the shelves and perhaps the flat below..

Call plumber. "O arithmos den einai... blah blah" not available, presume forever. No more water leaking. Call concierge, no answer. Go to work clutching belongings in hands and pockets. Am an hour late.
Boss gives number for plumber. Finally agree on 6pm to come and look at tank.
Need to be at airport at 4pm to pick up dad, need to speed home to be home for 6pm for plumber.

Why is everything so bloody difficult in this country?!

In my next life, I will be a man. Not so much because of penis envy but rather because of ease-of-life envy:

Men do not suffer from irrational melancholy grumps a week before their non-existant period.
Men do not have to shave/wax/alternative excruiciatingly painful method their legs/armpits/bikini lines.
Men do not have to worry about bad hair days. Being bald isn't so taboo when you're male.
Men don't have to wear two sports bras to go for a simple jog.

Rant over. Not that any of the above applies today but it's a continual question of maintenance. And it conflicts with my laid back nature.

Additionally, men don't have to worry about having to work twice as hard to rove themselves in male dominated environments. The number of times I've gone on site only to have some thickheaded foreman practically pat me on the head and say 'there there, don't break a nail' or somesuch. Anyway.. not that I'd ever consider stepping out looking like a gorilla and cammomile tea does wonders for monthly grumps.
Maybe I'll just stick to being a girl, there's something satisfying about fighting against the odds.

The building I live in here has some funny residents. Namely two flats which seem to be occupied by a large extended family. Their idea of fun in th eevenings it to sit in the carpark next to the large wheelie bins- which, in the extreme heat of the day, release the most disgusting smell of rotten waste in the evening.

Anyway, despite their evident deviant tastes in entertainment, I always smile and say good evening if I see them before parking my car in the tightest spot left under their scrutiny of my driving skills.

I came home from my run this evening, and drove into the parking area. Great Oaf 1 from the family is sat on a plastic chair against a particularly stinky bin acting as Sentry to the Parking. He tells me in Greek that I should go slower.
I pause. Wind down my window and ask him to repeat what he said. Entry to Parking Heaven requires an acute angle of turning to get into it what with the labyrinth of plastic chairs and bins they have set up so I'm already in first gear and going as slow as I can before my tin on wheels excuse of a car would stop moving.

He repeated that I should go slowly, because his children are there. I said that I was going slow enough and then felt like telling him that perhaps he shouldn't let his toddlers play in carparks but my Greek isn't quite up to arguing with boorish retards. I moved on with him muttering something, at which point I really wanted to tell him that if his kids got squashed from playing in traffic it was surely just natural selection doing its magic. But then the phrasing for "natural selection" escapes me and besides, I don't really wish harm to his kids.
Him, sure, but not the kiddies.

Today was a holiday.. I spent the morning drinking turkish cyprus coffee with the tenants of the shop bequeathed to my brother and I. Trying my best to look young and fertile in order to remind them that life does go on and with the tenants at 75-85 years old, I had the upper hand as far as using the shop is concerned. You see, they're refusing to move out although I've already put the plans through to extend the shops. In fact, I'm working on the designs in the architecture office this summer. In Cyprus, long let tenants have practical ownership rights. Which is a pain in the arse and terribly unfair after we've been so nice to them by not raising the rent much as they're so old. Surely it's the retirement age soon?!

Anyway.. they were amiable enough and I then spent the majority of the day lazing at the pool. trying to beat my length and a half underwater record... fun but not so fun when you're dodging tumbling kiddies and hairy adolescent legs.

Then my evening run.. an hour today and I didn't feel too tired. This is the sunset I grabbed before I drove home:

A Few Things I Have Learnt From Cyprus

1. Car horns are indispensible. In fact, I think the driving test here includes a section on beeping as opposed to using indicators. Turning right? Press your horn and stick your arm out of the driver window. Running a red light with pedestrians mid-cross? Blare your horn and shout expletives at them until they scurry to safety.

2. Rules and time only apply to foreigners. And foreigner includes Cypriots who have the misfortune of having a grandparent or great grandparent who is sadly of tainted blood, usually Turkish. If, however, your cousin's neighbour's daughter's nephew works in government, all your paperwork will be fast tracked. Lucky you!

3. Never discuss the Cyprus problem with a Cypriot. Especially if they're 2nd or 3rd generation. They just don't want to think outside the box. Besides the 'cyprus problem' is no longer about the segregation and the buffer zone but is now said with a bit of scorn and is more likely to refer to the indigenous erectile problem* than anything political.**
*I quote from a male neighbour. Infer from that what you will. I have never seen a cypriot willy so I can't confirm the above.
**of course, erectile dysfunction is also a political problem, a lot of waiting around for some dicks to stand up for you.

4. Ants are tenacious. They will come if you leave crumbs out. Once they come, their memories are imprinted with the route of your kitchen and they will never leave. Even if it's spotless.

5. 9/10 cockroaches are scaredy-cats, the remainder will attack. My usual tried and tested method of stamping my foot near a cockroach to send ti scuttling back to its source doens't work with the braver 'roaches. Stamp your foot and instead of running away they will scuttle towards you or fly into your hair.
It's not nice. I shall give up being happy clappy 'no unecessary killing' if they carry on being mutinous. I shall then invest in some acid to spray on them. Buggers.

6. Your shins can sweat. As can forearms and surprisingly, the tops of your feet... This will happen copiusly. Especially when you're sat down in a poorly ventilated room for two hours learning greek and then, upon standing up, the seat of your trousers will be soaked and the world and his dog will be horrified that one so young should be struck with apparent incontinence.

7. Turkish Cypriots are handsomer than the Greek Cypriots. Betraying my heritage, it's true, but it must be said that the north conceals far hunkier specimens than the south which seem to be made up of bouffant hair and skinny jeans. Wandering around kyrenia's back streets, every other young man was olive skinned with blue or green eyes, symmetrical features, strong jawlines and nearly all tall and lean.
Saying that, they're all a lot sleazier on the north than on the south (where they all dress like a gay man might if in the UK).

8. Watermelon goes off. My supper consisted of watermelon with a funny, slightly alcoholic aftertaste. Odd, as it didn't look any different.

9. Stick to one bikini. If you change bikinis in the hope of getting an even tan you are a FOOL. I have multitonal zebra heaven going on at the top of my thighs and across my stomach not to mention the various criss-crossing of lines across my back and chest.

10. Don't admit to people that you go running. For they will surely look at you as if you're mad. In fact, don't admit to walking anywhere either- it is customary to use your car if needing to travel for more than 200m.
Admitting you go running is akin to divulging your latest STD results. No one really wants to know how far you'd go to make yourself feel better.

The evening sultry and close against my skin as I sit here contemplating a Cypriot Friday night. Occasional bursts of car horns and the passionate discussions of neighbours pepper the white noise of cicadas. Packs of young men strut down the avenue towards the smell of promise and hope. Towards ladies sitting languidly at cafe tables in their make up and finished hair. The haze of perfumes strong in a bid to outdo each other on scent.

Aware of my position as an observer from my high vantage point but similarly realising that I ought to be down there with them, I look away. Friday night belongs to the young in Nicosia, the lives of others determine that you should mingle and define your status as to how good you look.
The sky, rowdy with pinks and oranges melts behind the cranes and mountainous skyline. Dragging its lilac afterthought and cooler breezes as a herald to the night. It'll be another warm night and I am glad to not be on show this evening. Besides, my bed beckons and tomorrow holds a whispered assurance of cool water to swim in, books to read (currently Homer's Iliad in compliance with All Things Greek) and sunshine to absorb. First I will eat my grilled halloumi with watermelon (an excellent, if unexpected, combination) and then see to sleep...

5 Albums only on your i-pod/mp3 player
1. Radiohead - OK computer
2. Chopin as played by Horowitz (I only have it on vinyl but that can be copied)
3. Regina Spektor- Begin to Hope
4. Ella Fitzgerald- the gold collection
5. Beethoven Sonatas as played by Wilhelm Kempf

5 Items of clothing
1. My favourite bikini (assuming the desert island isn't tundra wasteland surrounded by icebergs)
2. my favourite top (homemade)
3. jeans (all I ever wear practically)
4. my favourite puma trainers
5. wetsuit in case I want to escape...

5 Luxury food stuffs (your Island has a fridge/freezer)
1. Nutella
2. Marmite
3. roast cashews/almonds
4. Moutaba'al
5. soya ice cream- preferably praline flavour with lots of chocolate and nuts and yumminess

5 Reminders of home
1. my piano
2. my mum
3. backgammon set
4. The slow cooking pot my gran gave me
5. The penknife my brother gave me

I left the flat this morning, in a hurry.. I'm supposed to start work at 8:30am and it was already just past 8:30 when I left for the five minute walk to work. I used the lift in an attempt to stay as fresh as possible. When the doors opened, I noticed it was already partly occupied, so I squeezed in and gave a small, polite 'kalimera' to the man inside. He seemed estatic with this opening gambit and gave me a huge smile and said he was surprised to see me, was I new to the building? He lived upstairs [probably in the death window-shard flat grrr] he then noticeably looked me up and down as I said I was here to work for the summer. I excused myself once on the ground floor and as I left he looked at me for a bit too long when he said goodbye and said it was a pleasure to meet me.

No stranger to the over friendliness of men who mis-interpret my femininity for welcome, my politeness for interest and my calm observation for a willingness to comply, I usually ignore their advances. Preferring instead the more genuine interests and less shallow motives. So I ignored him and carried on my way. Come lunchtime, I stopped into Debenhams on the way home- it has a mini supermarket attached. In the queue for the till, a beautiful man queued up behind me. Now.. I'm not terribly good with good looking people. I can't quite bring myself to look at them and end up looking like a gibbering fool from my embarrassment that they obviously know I fancy them, even if I don't. So I glanced at him from time to time, noting his perfect physique (broad shouldered, lean and about 6'2" a.k.a perfect) convincing myself I was being very subtle when I noticed on my 4th glance that he was smiling away.. I sensed he'd caught me so I resolutely looked away, determined not to look again and going quite red in the process. It wasn't until I heard him say hi that I looked around again.. I managed to smile and say hi but then my card payment had been accepted and the till lady had handed me my bag so bar waiting around like a crazed fool for his shopping to go through, I had no natural choice but to leave. There's not much scope for hanging around at the supermarket end of the shop. So I left.. but still!! Beautiful man said hi!!

Ha. I'm such a hypocrite. I scorn men who approach me for the way I look and the fact tha ti'm kind and friendly and then I swoon when a handsome stranger notices me. I'm just as shallow except that my standards are higher and they have to be properly beautiful to get that reaction from me.
Anyway.. after lunch, back to work and a client walks into the office. Demands to know who the new architect is (myself) and when he learns me name he's delighted- it's the same name as his daughter and then he takes my hand and kisses it and says (in greek) that I'm as lovely as my name but he shall call me "Borekia" because I'm (something) a word i don't know in greek. But seeing as 'borek' is a sweet cheese filled pastry I can guess at the meaning.

So what's different today that hasn't been there before. Well, i washed my hair (always a success story in improving allure) and I waxed, at length. But can men sense that sort of thing? It's not immediately obvious as I'm wearing long sleeves and trousers and my hair up. Maybe I know I've done these small improvements and my increased self confidence shows in my mannerisms and behaviour and that's what they're picking up on.

Whatever it is that's suddenly made me more noticeable I shall use it to regain beautiful man's attention, if, after enough lurking around debenham's supermarket, i happen to bump into him again. Then I can practise my hypocrisy whilst convincing myself of my own virtuosity.

Sometimes, you make a small irrational decision and it's only in retrospect that you realise what a godsend that decision was. There I was, having a mini sun nap after lunch (only for 20 minutes, it was 2pm so still too intense) on the terrace. Reading a book- one of my guilty pleasure authors: George MacDonald Fraser, completely chauvanistic but hilarious so it's allowed.
Instead of lying down for the whole 20 minutes, I felt bored after only 5 minutes. Which is odd as it combines three of my favourite after meal activities- reading, napping and sunshine. So, I got up and went in to get some water. I must have been gone only 3 minutes when I heard a funny crashing noise outside. There's a building site just opposite the house so I thought perhaps they'd dropped something on there. I re-emerged, water in hand, a few minutes later. Where I'd lain, just minutes earlier, there was a load of smashed glass including two shards as big as my wide open hand (which is big- I've the same size hands as many of my male friends- it comes from being 5'9" and just generally, built..) I think, if I'd still been there, my face would be in shreds and worst case scenario- a shard of glass through my throat.

Is it the hand of God or just woman's intuition (I think the latter generally only applies to human interaction as opposed to accidents and misfortune)? Whatever it was, I'm glad I didn't stay!!
It turned out that the top floor flat (9th floor, I'm on the 4th- thats 18m of drop height)had broken their window. Have they come down to see that I'm ok? No. Have they apologised? No. Have they offered to help clean up? No.
Anyway... no sign of creepy stalkers today. I tod my boss and he was appalled I hadn't told him at the time. He says he'll call teh police if I ever see him again.

There's a rubbish made for TV movie on tonight but as it's the only thing in English, I am part of the audience... until the next time! night night..

It appears they have scrapped the rebuilding of ground zero! I was so excited at the project- especially the transport hub proposed by Santiago Calatrava, which would open its roof on the anniversary of the tragedy. But unfortunately, like many things in the world, the whole project has been deemed too expensive.
Surely expense isn't an issue for defiance in the face of hatred? No?

So if you're green fingered, you're good at gardening. What are you if you fix mysterious printer panics?

The plotter went into a deep sulk today in the middle of a busy hour's printing. Nothing, but nothing would fix it. My boss left to fetch the IT man, I restarted and gave the printer a little firm shove: it worked! I am offically.. erm.. silver fingered?

anyway, today's been pretty tiring. It's now 11 pm and it's still in the mid-thirties celcius. I've had two showers today and I'm still feeling less than fragrant.. I had my greek lesson tonight and it went well. I was trying to explain how I'd managed to get a parking ticket whilst parked at the top of a deserted mountain. My one and only driving offence in 5 years of driving.

Anyway.. what is it with creepy men?! A gang of three guys walked past me when I was on the way to work, and one of them did a double take and then slowed down to walk next to me. He asked me where I was from. I answered in greek, that I was from Nicosia. He asked me where I was going, I said, to work. Then he asked me my name and I started getting annoyed so I said that it had been nice to chat but that Iwas late for work and sped up a little. I could hear him shouting 'wait, wait!' after me but I briskly walked on.
2 minutes later I get to work, in the reflection of the glass entrance door, I see him across the road, watching me. It's a bit creepy seeing as I have to walk through an alleyway, then a car park and then a side street to get to work- it's not exactly the road most travelled.
I sit in my office and through the window, I see him loitering outside the office, for a good 10 minutes! Is this normal behaviour?! I'm a bit scared to walk to work now...

I shall put my kickboxing to good use if he tries anything cheeky.