When luck runs out

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As much as a single fortnight could be bad, the first two weeks of May were worse. I had been working late every night to get the job done, to the point where I was just living for my job – we’ve all been there; you get up, work, eat, sleep, get up, work. I was run down, I had my bike (effectively an extra limb to me) stolen, I had one of the worst flues I’ve ever had, I was made homeless (that’s a whole nother story) and then, after paying the rent and deposit on a new house, I had next to no money. My worldly possessions were whisked out of the old house with the crazy woman, the one who had made me homeless, and distributed across 3 of my friends houses in Manchester. I’ve never left a house so fast but I’m lucky to have some really good friends. It was probably around 7 or 8pm that I actually realised I was going to leave for Turkey in less than 9 hours time so there was no way that I’d packed, thought about the arrangements or even remembered where I’d put my passport in all the drama. Even for me, that was quite bad.

I didn’t sleep that night. I was staying in a house I used to live in a while back and my old housemate there was good enough to store the majority of my stuff. I dozed a bit, worried about my lack of organisation, worried about whether I would sleep through my alarm, going through everything that had just happened in my head. About 2am, another housemate came home with a lady friend and kept me up for another reason entirely. I left just after 4am, with the sun starting to rise, a bit of mist and the peace and quiet of a weekend morning. This lasted til the bus arrived, which was packed with the student clubbers from the night before, still drunk, most looking pretty rough and most shouting their conversations after 6 hours of deafening speakers.

The flight passed without drama and I managed to get some kip over the 5 hours. I had avoided the notorious ash cloud by mere hours, clearly a sign that my luck was on the up, and touching down in Istanbul, I bought my visa, passed through the checkpoint and walked into Turkey.

I soon realised my luck had only lasted those short 5 hours. Lifting my bag in the airport, I managed to twist my knee making it quite painful to walk on, especially with the large backpack I had to carry. Back in the UK, I had changed all my money for Turkish lira which, after the fee, left me with a grand total of 18TL (about £8). So I headed straight for the cash machines, at least 5 to be precise, giving me a grand total of £0. The VISA card I had brought with me, after my MasterCard was closed from non-use, was the only accepted card I had. After a huge drama involving finding an international phone, I rang Nationwide, who said my bank statements had been compromised in the post and that they had therefore put a block on my account. I passed the security tests and was informed that my account would be restored at 9am tomorrow. The phone call had left me with 15TL/£6 to get me to Istanbul, find somewhere to stay and find something to eat. It was 8pm. Clearly the whole incident was some sort of joke from above set about to test me. I sat down at the edge of the concourse, mind blank.

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