It's happening. I'm going travelling. Oh god.

This Wednesday, I'm going to be getting on a plane. I'll sit, nursing my battered Bill Bryson book, eagerly staring out of the window and waiting to land in Dalaman, Turkey. Then, I'll lug my suitcases  into the taxi and wind through the Turkish countryside to the stunning Kayakoy and eventually turn a corner that has a view of the hotel I'll be staying/working at. That's the plan, anyway.

I use the word "plan" in the loosest sense of the word, however. "Plan", by its normal definition, usually indicates some level of organisation- some decided design that involves times and routes and prices. Perhaps even booking confirmation numbers. That is not, however, how I intend you to understand the word "plan", as that would be outright misleading. Instead, the opening paragraph of this blog should be read more as; "I'm going to Turkey on Wednesday. Bugger. I haven't got the faintest idea what to do". That'd be much more accurate.

I'm not exactly an unorganised person. I have the flights booked, I have work lined up in a beautiful boutique hotel. I'm travelling through the Work Away scheme, which means I'll work around 5 hours a day for 5 days a week in return for a bed and feeding. (It's a really cool scheme, definitely check it out.) So in some respects, I have planned the most important bits.

However, when you realise that you have less than a week to go before you'll be landing alone in a foreign country and you still have done a majestic Sod All in preparation- panic begins to settle in. I haven't booked luggage onto the flight. I have no idea how to get from the airport to my hotel. I haven't ordered any currency. I don't even have any sunscreen.

Kayakoy.

As Wednesday creeps closer, surviving on a wing and a prayer is looking like my only option. Perhaps it'll be exhilarating. Imagine, arriving in an alien country with only the faintest idea of how to pronounce the region I'm staying in. Perhaps the adrenalin will kick in, and I'll become some sort of super-traveller, instantly fluent in Turkish, with an internal compass that'd impress GoogleMaps. I'll quickly adapt to my new way of life and will be accepted by locals as one of their own. That, or I'll blunder about the airport arrivals lounge for a while before being taken for a ride (literally AND metaphorically) by the nearest taxi firm who are driving in the complete opposite direction of where I'm supposed to be heading. I'll be left to hike up an incredibly steep hill, and I'll land in a heap, several hours later, on the doorstep of my new temporary home only to find that I've left my money on the backseat of the taxi which is now cheerfully steaming away. Unlike Natwest-advert-lady, I can't phone my mum at four in the morning and brightly ask for £400. Not without being laughed at, anyway.

Okay, so I'm exaggerating. I'll get my luggage booked this weekend, and if all else fails I'll just do it at the airport. My currency can be ordered pretty much a day in advance, and I think if I leave it long enough, my gran will eventually buy me some sunscreen. Booking a transfer is probably going to be the biggest problem- I'm toying with the idea of staying in a hotel at the airport for the night instead, and using public transport in the morning to get to Kayakoy. Arriving so late is turning out to be a bigger pain that I'd anticipated, and definitely something I'll take into consideration next time I'm booking flights. I think it'll cost me more in trying to get from the airport to my hotel at some unholy dark hour than I ever saved in the first place by booking the cheapest possible flight. Lesson learned.

Either way, this time next week I'll be sunning myself in the stunning Kayakoy. I might not have any money, a map, or the vaguest sense of what I'm doing with my life, but it'll be gorgeous regardless.

Getting caught blogging.

I'm not a shy person. Almost anyone I've ever met could attest to that, I don't think anyone would ever even consider describing me as "quiet" "withdrawn" or "introverted". No, I'm much more likely to blunder into meeting someone new, use my Northern accent/charm/wit to enchant/offend them, and then potter off to make a mess somewhere.

Yet when it comes to my writing, I'm very self-concious. I don't like people reading anything but the finished product- schoolwork essays were never reviewed mid-way through, articles are never sent to editors until I'm 110% happy with what I've written. Otherwise, I get nervous and forget how to spell and feel like everything I write is stupid. It's not just original work, either. When writing up bills at the restaurant I waitress in, I get flustered if a customer is standing on the over side of the bar watching me- and there's no creativity involved in writing "Bottle of house wine, £14.75".

I can't stand people reading my stuff in front of me, either. It feels very self-indulgent to watch someone read an article, email or blog I've written. It's like when you watch your favourite comedy or youtube video in front of someone. Instead of just being relaxed and enjoying it yourself, you're nervously checking that they're reacting to the funny bits, and promising that it gets better in a second. Awkward.

Part of publishing articles and blogs online is that when people Google my name, it will come up with a list of things I've written. Which is obviously fine, because if it wasn't I wouldn't have written them in the first place. Yet it is slightly scary. People who are so inclined merely have to tap out my name in order to read through anything I've ever had the courage (vanity?) to publish online.

Seeing as I'm pretty likely to be the only Farrah Kelly in the world (Arabic first names aren't usually paired with Irish surnames), I'm pretty easy to find. It wouldn't take much effort to cyberstalk me, in any case. Unlike all you Joe Smiths and Liz Bloggs out there, I can't hide behind the thousands of people with the same name online. I'm up there, ready for anyone to mock. It's a good job very few people actually care what I have to say for myself, otherwise my self-esteem might be in trouble.

Blogging- the lamest hobby ever?

There are also certain people that I feel embarrassed about "admitting" I blog to. There's something very lame-90s-girl-who-writes-about-feelings about telling people you blog. You say the word "blog" in front of people who don't bother much with the world of the interpipes and all they hear is "0HMYG0D Justin B33bz iz SO CUTE 4eva LOL xoxo". And while I mightn't have a style that'd sell millions of novels, I'd like to at least credit myself with a little more talent than OMGLOL-ing tweens.

Recently, I've been "caught" blogging in two capacities. It was like I was caught picking up leftover food in the street, or watching Big Brother sincerely. Ah, the shame.

Firstly, my boss found out I blog. He quickly assumed it was about my feelings (which it is, I guess?), rolled his eyes, and moved on with his life. It was pretty embarrassing. And if he has any inclination to have a nosy, then he'll be reading this (Hi, Adam!). I hope not, because it'd make for a pretty awkward conversation at my next shift.

Secondly, someone found an old blog post. And I mean old. I won't mortify myself further by going into any detail, but suffice to say that we now know that it is definitely physically impossible to die of humiliation. If it wasn't, I wouldn't be writing this now. Never write anything you don't want people to see. Not on paper, in sand, and certainly not on the bloody internet. Just think it, shrug it off, and be glad that your thoughts aren't screened publicly. Put down the pen. PUT DOWN THE KEYBOARD. Trust me.

Whatever my self-conciousness issues are about people seeing my writing, it's tough, frankly. I love writing too much to stop just because I cringe whenever I say the word "blog". It may be an indulgent hobby, but it's mine. So I'd better get used to it already.