Liz Jones's Birthday in Antalya: a solo Turkish holiday filled with surprises, texts and a dog at home

Liz Jones recounts in her YOU Magazine diary a birthday spent in Antalya, Turkey, where hotel staff mistook her for a honeymoon guest after a heroically dramatic arrival. Rather than a sea-view room, she is shown a swim-to-the-door villa, whose principal bedroom is adorned with rose petals, red balloons and towel sculptures in the shape of swans, with an open bottle of champagne on the bedside table. The scene prompts a pop-culture comparison to a moment from a Sex and the City film, a mood Jones describes as part relief, part theatre. She has dinner alone that night, and a cake with sparklers arrives to mark the occasion. In bed, she watches a film she loves and, in the glow of the hotel suite, reflects on being alone but surrounded by a carefully staged celebration.

The next morning, a text arrives from an ex called David 1.0, wishing her a happy birthday and asking for a hug for their dog Mini, who is frail. Jones responds with a quick update on Mini’s condition and shares a photo of the bed and the villa. He jokes back with a line about loneliness and a playful auto-correct quip, and the exchange threads through the day with light banter and a reminder that the relationship’s history still lingers. He mentions having two parties to attend that night, a line that hints at competing social obligations and a sense of missed opportunities, while Jones notes the irony of a birthday when messages arrive in waves rather than in person.

By the second day, Jones says she begins to loosen up, spending time in a private cabana on the beach. She records how much she is living in the moment, even as she monitors her data usage—six hours and fifty minutes of checking messages and reading papers on her birthday, a reminder of how the world intrudes even during escape. The trip is framed as a gift she had not sought, with her friend Nic staying behind to care for Mini as Jones tries to balance relaxation with responsibility. Mini’s runny tummy returns, and Nic reports she must pause the dog’s antibiotics, a recurring complication Jones battles when attempting to take a break from life. The sense of foreboding is contagious—something always seems to threaten Jones’s attempts at joy—and she laments the timing of such interruptions, hoping these moments will pass.

As Jones reflects on personal history, she juxtaposes the present with memories from her youth. When she was in the midst of her A levels, she called her mother from a pay phone to say she would go to a disco with a boy she liked; her mother cried, and Jones rushed home after news that her grandfather had been killed in a bicycle accident. The memory underscores how fragile happiness can feel and how family histories shape the way she experiences moments of joy. Still, Mini remains the bright point of the move away from London; Jones calls the dog the love of her life and the soulmate she feels most deeply connected to, a constant in an unsettled life. The tension between longing and obligation colors every moment of the trip and makes her consider whether an earlier return is possible, even as the villa’s splendor tempts her to stay.

The diary also includes Jones’s weekly column segment about things she loathes, in which she recounts a moment from a car service: an MOT pickup where the mechanic moved the seat and altered the rear-view mirror and radio settings without asking. She also rails against the idea that she should have applauded a Giorgio Armani show when she was told to clap more vigorously, noting the designer’s practice of filming his front row as a reminder of the industry’s sometimes performative nature. The piece adds texture to the trip, illustrating how even glamorous moments can be punctured by everyday irritations and professional critique.

Ultimately, Jones frames the Antalya trip as a paradox: an escape that exposes vulnerabilities—the lure of a perfect birthday contrasted with the fear of losing touch with Mini and the on-going curiosity about the big decision her ex says he must make. The text exchanges with David 1.0, the sense of loneliness amid luxury, and the practical concerns about Mini keep the diary grounded in real life rather than fantasy. While she remains grateful for the getaway, the question persists: is the big decision in his hands, or in hers—the decision to stay or return, to savor the moment or prioritize responsibility? As the diary closes, Jones leaves readers with a sense of open-ended possibility, a reminder that even on a birthday far from home, life’s important questions still demand attention.