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Couch to Cyprus


If you’ve read any of my other posts, you’ll probably know that the past four years have been a bit of a head fuck. So a few months ago, in a fit of wild spontaneity in between ‘Dinner Date’ and ‘Millionaire Matchmaker’, I fired off an application form for a job in Cyprus. As you do. Then the adverts ended, so I put down the laptop and thought nothing more of it.

It was only when I was called for interview that I looked up where Cyprus actually was on a map. Bit closer to Syria and Iraq than I thought it was, to be honest. However, they were paying the expenses and I’ve never been one to turn down a jolly, so I slapped on the Factor 50 and hopped on Easyjet’s finest. Plus it was in term time – bonus. I’ve put more preparation into nights out, so I was pretty startled when they called a few days later and offered me the job.

Now here I am. Feels a bit like ‘Alice in Wonderland’, except at the end of my rabbit hole there was a small island in the middle of the Med. Some of the local characters are quite similar though. The first few months have mostly been spent wolfing halloumi, mainlining super strength Cypriot rose and wondering how on earth we ended up here (my boyfriend, Glyn, came along for the craic).

We now live in a very small village, and it turns out there’s only so many bars you can fall out of before people start avoiding you in the local shop. So, given that we’re here for the foreseeable, I’ve decided that I need to make some lifestyle changes. Less cheese and boozing, more water and jogging. However, given that I haven’t managed more than a brisk stroll since my last PE lesson in 1997, I suspect it may be quite painful…


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