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Day 1. Of what I anticipate will feel like a lifetime.

Peeling my own eyes out. Sauteeing with seasonal spices and serving them up on a platter of hate.

Would’ve been the more preferable activity for the day. “I travelled the world with you as a single mum” she said, “it’s really not that difficult, you’ll be fine” she said.

All was not fine. In fact, it was like trying to lasso  a drunk angry sweaty octopus and navigate through a teeny tiny aisle. My own dimensions aside, this was fucking fun.

Sat next to a crystal healing, spiritualist psychic, Dutch and fellow queer from Sheffield. What are the chances?! We discussed the part of Holland I used to live in, shared tips on where to buy Oude Kaas (best Dutch cheese ever!) and shared stories of the gay scene as we remembered it, before ‘the kids took over’. 40 years my senior, we'll skim over the irony of that minor detail.

Back to the spawn.
She LOVED passport control. So much so that she felt it necessary to alert every person in the airport of her sheer delight. Picture this: Tired, stressed, nicotine deprived mum. Small, in a back carry, angry that her fugly dolly was in the Trunki. Also sweaty, also stressed. Bending and thrashing with enough gusto that from a distance and to someone with not so great visual acuity we'd resemble a human Buckaroo. Only the horse’s load is less vintage plastic shite and more a hot, sweaty, 3ft tall octopus.

The hotel. It’s namesake, Blue Bay Platinum. In my resistance to over-TripAdvisor this holiday, I didn’t even look too closely at the pictures.

It’s really fucking blue. And shiny.

Like the kind of squeaky clean and shiny that you get palpitations over as a Small person owner. And that you need to have earned your ‘Adult’ before you contemplate even venturing to recreationally.
 As neither the owner of a well behaved toddler nor having the Adult upgrade in the cognitive motherboard yet, I’ve concluded that this is the equivalent of booking the Ritz when we were really more suited to a Blackpool B&B.

Arriving at the arsecrack of night, there was literally bugger all open to feed the Small with before breakfast in the morning. So we did what most half respectable Brits would and (quite possibly not surprisingly) sought out a McDs. By recommendation of course, as the only place likely to be open. It wasn’t.

But everything for a reason, had it been open I’d maybe not have met my future husband.

It'd be a marriage or convenience of course. It started with a sandwich, as all best stories do, and was a slow burner as I didn’t discover the true potential of this beautiful Turkish gentleman until far, far later in the early hours after he’d taken pity on my angry hungry tornado and made her a cheese roll. Up pops Facebook messenger. I said I’d not complain to the manager if he left me alone and was hastily blocked. Fancy that?

I “come on holiday by mistake” (thanks, Sophie!), and within a 5 minute conversation turn away quite possibly the only unsuspecting idiot ready to Ford that metaphorical river. That’s it, may as well join the convent now.

So alive. For today. The resounding question I’ve been asked since stepping foot on Turkish land is “why have you come to Turkey now?” cue raised eyebrows and hint of a smirk.

In short, I haven’t a bloody clue. But we’ll go exploring and make the best of it 😂😂😂

Jemma and the Tornado


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