Journey to Istanbul
My iPod ran out. I am irrationally annoyed by this. I suspected it was close when I began packing at midnight and intended to put it on so as to wear it down so I could charge it again, but I forgot. Only started listening to it around 02.00. It ran out literally as I was coming upstairs for the last time to collect my bags and walk out the door. I want my music! Although I am wide awake now, on my N38 bus hurtling through Dalston, I am certain I'd develop a tiredness headache and aching eyes if I tried to read. Now I am musicless through two buses to Heathrow and two flights to Istanbul via Prague. Oh, the humanity!
On the plus side, my digital camera is fully charged for the first time in a year and a half. The universal charger I bought from Argos on John's suggestion worked a treat.
Uh-oh. Invasion of bus by a group of loud, scantily-clad, drunken girls. I want my music!
Of course, though, who else would be on the bus at 3 a.m. after a Saturday night? More groups get on every couple of stops, some clutching kebabs. Along Essex Road, a group of teenagers arrives -- translucently beautiful in youth -- they don't look legal. One girl wears a hoodie as a jumper dress, tugging it awkwardly down with both hands as she ascends to the upper deck. Another states half-defiantly, half-uncertainly, "Oh let's just sit down... in the bottom bit...." She and a friend sway towards the back in clunky stilettos. They get off after Angel, just before Taylor House, which houses the Asylum and Immigration Tribunal.
Only 03.40 and we're already at Holborn. I suspect I've seriously overestimated the time needed to get to Heathrow.
On the plus side, my digital camera is fully charged for the first time in a year and a half. The universal charger I bought from Argos on John's suggestion worked a treat.
Uh-oh. Invasion of bus by a group of loud, scantily-clad, drunken girls. I want my music!
Of course, though, who else would be on the bus at 3 a.m. after a Saturday night? More groups get on every couple of stops, some clutching kebabs. Along Essex Road, a group of teenagers arrives -- translucently beautiful in youth -- they don't look legal. One girl wears a hoodie as a jumper dress, tugging it awkwardly down with both hands as she ascends to the upper deck. Another states half-defiantly, half-uncertainly, "Oh let's just sit down... in the bottom bit...." She and a friend sway towards the back in clunky stilettos. They get off after Angel, just before Taylor House, which houses the Asylum and Immigration Tribunal.
Only 03.40 and we're already at Holborn. I suspect I've seriously overestimated the time needed to get to Heathrow.