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.