Turkey was the one thing missing from a Christmas dinner table yesterday that was crowded with every other sort of seasonally delicious food you could name (except for the pavlovas, which had been forgotten, but which will be remembered at every family Christmas yet to come, ad infinitum - although there were meringues, so the day was saved by Rosa from Honduras who has definitively proved her Kiwi credentials if ever they were in doubt). So it was just as well that I had unwrapped this book, earlier.
Part-written by a mate, it will be the start of my preparation for next year's momentous expedition to Gallipoli for the 100th anniversary commemorations on Anzac Day, 25th April. I must confess that research in advance of a trip is not my strong point, and perhaps a contributory factor to the disquiet described in the previous post - but this is a special one, and I need to know as much as I can learn about the country as well, as course, about the disastrous campaign.
As well as attending the commemoration services, I'll be doing a two-week coach tour around the western half of Turkey, and will have a few days free at each end for some personal poking about, and I want to make the most of that time for pleasure and interest as well as story material. It will help that the Firstborn, now a legitimate traveller in her own right, will be my companion; and there is no doubt that public nudity will be part of the experience (at the Baths, natch - where else? Tch!)
I'm going there with Emirates, paid for this time with my personal money, and almost certainly (though a faint hope will persist, until the final shoulder-drooping moment of death at the boarding gate) down the back in cattle class, with the hot nuts, soft mattresses and bar upstairs just a painful memory.
Meantime, though, it's still Christmas here on Waiheke Island, and this is what it looks like: