With my Birthday being Feb 28th, the First of March becomes my own personal new year’s day. And this year we get the buy-four-get-one-free bonus of the 29th, a free floating day which we celebrated with a big feast of a leg of goat. Any excuse for a roast dinner.
One of the advantages… let me rephrase that.
The advantage of getting up at 5 AM to take Deniz to school is I get to see the sunrise every morning. Watching the sun come up on my personal new year’s day was motivating. Big year. Got to move to London, get a new job, get a new home. It felt like it all starts here.
We had breakfast and coffee in Silifke, a quick Guinness in Taşucu, and a couple of Efes on the beach in Kum Mahellesi, before heading home for dinner and cake.
I don’t know how I will celebrate my next birthday. Probably in London, but where exactly is part of year 55’s great adventure.
We were shopping in a big modern city and I sought respite from the consumer rush by going into a surprisingly old-fashioned record shop, where I choose an album and sat in a big, comfy leather chair, with armrests and everything, and put on headphones so that I could spend forty minutes hiding from the masses and the misssus.
I can't remember which album I had chosen but was delighted to hear the brash and strident chords of The Jam's 'A Bomb in Wardour Street' begin.
Then, somewhere deep, deep down in my sub-concious, an alarm started ringing. Literally. I realised that I had changed the alarm app on my Kindle so that it played 'A Bomb in Wardour Street' when it went off. The music wasn't in my dream, it was in my bedroom.
I was living the dream.
This post's title, for those of you who have read this far, comes from the way I used to mishear the song 'Poetry in Motion'.
On Paddy’s day I decided to do something that would normally appall me. I decided to dye my beer green. I was going to have an Efes or two so I thought I would bite the bullet and embrace the great American tradition of drinking green lager. Well, it would make the day unique.
I have never bought food dye in Turkey before.
Back home food dye comes in liquid form, in little vials. Here it comes in powder form, in little plastic bags. Back home you open the vial, pour a few drops into your chosen brew, and laugh and laugh at how wild and crazy you are. Here you open the bag, which has been helpfully sealed with staples so opening it means ripping it open, and unleash chemical warfare.
I say it is ‘powder’. It isn’t. It is a dust. A fine, airborne dust that may have been specifically engineered to be carried into every available crevice and onto every exposed surface in any room it is released in. I opened the baggie and watched in helpless horror as a cloud of malevolent blue mist settled on everything around me.
(Blue because you add blue dye to yellow lager to get green fun. Oh, I had researched all the non-essentials. However, as you will see below, that isn’t altogether reliable. I had to dilute the dye with two or three bottles of beer to get it green. The first glass, below, celebrated St Papa Smurf Day.)
I’d like to say it was worth it for the high jinx that ensued. Here’s the photo. You decide.
The ultimate surprise came the next day, when I went for my morning ablutions. Some things really are not meant to be green.
If I believed in a higher power I would be worried. However I only believe in Sod's Law so it was pretty much to be expected.
For about a week I was without the laptop and when I got it back it had been reformatted. I had most files backed up, so not too many photos and such were lost, but all my programs were history. And not the recoverable kind.
Anyway, not to whinge. Well, no more than normal. I had to get Office again, but on the plus side I upgraded to Office 2013, which is nice.
She didn't go to school.
At five o'clock my alarm goes off. I go to her bedroom, turn on the lights, and say 'Deniz' to wake her up. Then I go downstairs and make her some breakfast. About twenty past five she comes downstairs and eats it silently at the kitchen table while I sit in the front room reading the paper on t'internet. At half five we go out to the car. During this process not a word is exchanged. We pick up the girl-who-lives-nearby-and-goes-to-Deniz's-s
One day I was asking about Ekinsel and Deniz told me ''She talks too much in the mornings.''
We had a bit of a birthday bash on Saturday, down at Gul's cafe by the beach. The two other British lads who live nearby came.
Brits abroad. I am the one with the hair, by the way.
When you live abroad people tend to assume you should automaticaly be friends with any other ex-pats in your area. Peter, on the left in the picture, I would probably have chosen to be friends with even back in the UK. Tony, on the right and on the other hand, I probably would not have socialised with at home. He thinks a bit differently to me. Let me give you an example.
We were talking about shoes. I know, I know, get two blokes together and what else will they talk about. Anyway, I said;
''I've only got one pair of good shoes, and I keep them in a box and only get them out for weddings and funerals and, errr...''
''Court appearances?'' suggested Tony.
''I was going to say job interviews.''
It was my birthday yesterday. Thanks to an error on the cake I am now officially fifty-e.
I have decided that the day after my birthday is my own personal New Year's Day. As it happens to be the first of March, and as March is the first month of Spring, and as Spring is the first season of the year, this makes eminent sense to me.
So Happy New Year everybody. One of my new year's resolutions is to start blogging again. So here I am, back again.
- Current Location:Kum Mahellesi