And those last little crunchy bits

View through a chandelier, Aya Sophia

Last night I spent the evening on the roof of Bahaus with good company, big bags of rather nice Turkish-variety Lay crisps (chips for all you non-Brits), bars of Turkish chocolate (I can especially recommend the pistachio variety), a cherry-flavoured sheesha, and vodka with a variety of mixers. My French girlfriend, whom I had managed to escape during the day, joined us and got up close and personal by closing off any personal space, stroking my arm occasionally, touching my thigh, and telling me that "kaka" (poo) was her favourite subject. So I realised that I was sitting next to the French equivalent of Gillian McKeith. "That is what we are asking people when we say 'how do you do'," she said. "Because if the kaka is well, then all is well."

But it turned out that she wasn't after my body; she was after everyone's body. When I had left the bar for a while, she began stroking and touching another woman, who later said to me, "I wanted to tell her that she had the wrong woman, and that you were downstairs!". But she manhandled men and women alike, so I had not been specially chosen after all.

It was only this morning as I bent over my suitcase, trying to pack quietly without disturbing the rest of the dorm, that I finally told her off after she gave me a cheeky slap me on the backside. Call me old fashioned but unless you have a) given birth to me, b) dated/married me, or c) known me a while as a good friend, my rear is out of bounds. The poor woman was deeply apologetic and explained that it was just how she said 'good morning'. Flippin' heck, I would hate to work in her office.