What a Bell's ache!

Thursday 30 May 2024

I get in the taxi to the airport just after midnight. It's a mixture of relief and fear. The fear being "will I be ok on the two flights needed to get me back to Heathrow?" Well it's shit or bust!

Glitzy old Ashgabat is lit up - she really is quite a tart; but a charismatic one as far as I'm concerned. Very quickly we pass the Olympic Stadium with its ridiculous Horses Head Statue towering above it

 

Twenty minutes later the beautiful curved features of the Falcon-shaped Airport Terminal Building come into view.. It's as stunning close up. In my opinion, it sits way above all the other buildings in the city - it just reeks class. It has no coloured lights or gold bling, and neither would it benefit from them.

I fully expect my driver to just drop me off, but no. He's insistent on taking me into the terminal building. To get in we (and my luggage) both have to go through scanners and show passports etc. We spot the queue for check in. There are about twenty people waiting to check their luggage. The driver just casually walks up to the desk, has a quick word; and before I know it, they've opened up a desk especially for little old me. Embarrassed again, I shuffle to the desk and do all the necessary. Armed with boarding passes, I tip the fantastically helpful driver and head for the security check. Over the next 15 minutes, this the process:-

• Show boarding pass and passport to enter security check
• Me and my Luggage scanned
• Show boarding pass and passport to exit security check
• Immigration - show boarding pass and passport
• Exit immigration - show boarding pass and passport
• Show boarding pass and passport at a 2nd hand baggage scanning set up
• Show boarding pass and passport to exit the scanning area

As far as job creation schemes go, this is just the tops! Of course, the airport is ludicrously huge, and fate would have it that the only flight leaving; mine; went from the furthest gate. Oh well, I'd got two hours to kill, so take a gentle stroll. Plenty of comfy seats at the gate, the antithesis of shithole Luton! The only downsides of the wait were the horrific loud europop canned muzak, and the unnecessarily bright lights. Courier kit to the fore - the noise cancelling cans and eye mask do their stuff, and it's no time until I'm boarded. Now to sleep. It very quickly becomes apparent that there's little chance of that. The plane is rammed, and more significantly my "bolt upright seat" will not tilt back at all as there's an exit door behind my row. Beyond a schoolboy error. See teacher after class (again).

I watch an odd short film about a 12 year old girl in East London who steals bikes to make a living after her mother dies. I can't decide if I like it not. I must have, as I watched all of it rather avidly. The fact that I now can't remember the name of it is not indicative of how good it is. I'm just crap with films. I probably only remember the East London bit because she incessantly wears a West Ham shirt. Ask me about an Oxford United game back in 1975 or who played the 2nd guitar solo on the third track of Thin Lizzy's 1977 album, Bad Reputation, I'm your man! Anyway, I've googled the film now. It's called Scrapper, and appears to have got very good reviews in most of the quality rags - averaging 4.5 stars out of 5. Digression again - straight from the Ronnie Corbett School - the film helped the flight time pass, and more importantly, it is was only once we started to descend into Istanbul that I thought about any potential pressure issues with my head or brain. I might just live!............. a bit over-dramatic that!

We land slightly early in Istanbul at 5.15, and the sun is poking over the horizon. The airport, which incidentally has the second largest terminal building in the world, is absolutely buzzing. People everywhere, chasing around to transfer flights. The queue to go through security scanning looks massive, but with about 15 machines up and running, it's only a few minutes before I'm through into gigantic shopping and eating area. It's heaving, Camden Market on a Saturday style. With time to kill, I buy a couple of things for Lara and Cate, then the fifteen minute walk to find the departure gate.

As I queue to get into the departure gate the sun is streaming in; blindingly bright, like a flame thrower straight into my permanently open, and constantly streaming, right eye. Even sunglasses don't help much. In barely no time, we're boarding using Turkish Airlines' simple and effective 3 queues system (Business, Economy - back of the plane, and Economy - front of the plane). None of that pathetic Groups 1 to 9 tosh that BA use. Let's be honest, once they've done Group 1, the rest of us are just "scum class" to them; in varying degrees of scumminess and cheap skatedness. I hate BA, but stupidly remain loyal. Bloody Avios!

The plane is only 70% full, and I've got a space next to me, so I can stretch out a little. Despite having been awake for c26 hours the best I can manage is to doze. I am now almost counting the minutes down. Just over an hour out from Heathrow, a headache comes on. My mind races to places that it shouldn't. Be calm, breath and take some pills. I struggle to control ridiculous thoughts, and decide to go for distraction. I stumble across "sport" on the entertainment channels, and put on a "Preview of the Champions League" programme. It does its job superbly; and it's not lost on me that it will have been made by the Company that I did the courier work for. Good old ISG.

Definitely not an oil painting. More of a 3-D relief map!

The clouds clear, and down below me is Craven Cottage (home of Fulham FC in case you didn't know), and my mind is drawn to a derogatory song about former manager, Scott Parker. It's not a fair sentiment about him, but the way it's sung with a heavy cockney emphasis on one particular word always makes me snigger inappropriately.

We touch down, and the words of a wonderful song by Mike Scott (of Waterboys fame) come into my head..."Like a prodigal coming home, I knelt and kissed the tarmac". With relief coursing through me, I gave the sentiment some thought, but chose not to try and escape the air-bridge to get dirty lips. . I was relived to be "home safely", but certainly not remotely bothered that I was back in the UK per se. When you return to a place after going away you can see it through a clearer lens. It's easier to recognise what it's become. A country clinging desperately onto its past "glories", with the uber-rich getting richer and the services for the masses being decimated slowly and systematically. So many of the said masses have become the "me, me, me" generation - look at me, look at what I've got - even though I got it on credit. Me first, stuff society. I am cheered by the prospect of a forthcoming election, if not the bullshit, lies and fearmongering between now and then.

Turkmenistan is not a shining beacon of democracy or human rights. In fact it's the opposite. But I'm left to reflect on its features that were striking. There is a sense of community and family - people appear look out for each other, and care about each other. And "cash only" - highly irritating in my particular circumstances when I needed to find $1000 for my plane ticket. However, there's something nicely old-fashioned and prudent about it. You can only buy what you can really afford, and that shapes your priorities accordingly. That cannot be a bad thing. People are about the person they actually are - what they stand for, what they like etc. Not what they do for a job, or what they want you to think they are; or indeed, have in terms of "material goods". Sorry about all that - it all just popped into my head. It gets you thinking though.

Through passports. Slowly, of course. Only one "human desk" open for the hordes (including me) whose electronic chips never work. I rest my case about broken Britain. Just accept the shit service and get on. Maybe have a nice cup of tea to get over it. My rucksack does its best to play me up. The "bags delivered sign comes on, and I haven't seen it on the carousel. Eventually, I spot a pile of 30 bags on the floor at the far end of the carousel; and of course, it's there.

Now to meet Cate. Don't get emotional. Stiff upper lip, and all that tosh. She waves, I hide behind a pillar playfully. When I was at Istanbul airport I got a Whatsapp message from her asking me to describe how I looked. "Ugly, obviously, with a touch of extra mutant thrown in" should have been my reply. But I dutifully described the extent of the droopiness. We hug. Tears are contained, and then she says "well I've seen much worse"

Welcome home!

We head straight to the Doctors surgery in the vain hope of getting an urgent appointment. I'm in luck. Come back in four hours at 4.30. 

Armed with all my paperwork from Turkmenistan, part of which we've tried to translate, we see the Doc. Cate's there too, so instructions can be remembered and properly understood; and to prevent the usual post Doctor's appointment Stasi-style interrogation, and telling off for not asking the right questions! There's no need for the doc to look at my brain scans. Yes, it's almost certain to be Bell's Palsy. The Doctor was looking at me very intently as she got me to talk - clearly trying to assess the extent of my slurring. To my surprise she says that I'm not blinking at all. I knew I couldn't close my eye, but had no idea about the blinking. She prescribes a load of drugs, plus eye drops and eye gel. Each night I need to put the gel in my eye, and tape it shut to prevent it drying out. Excuse the pun, but I didn't see that coming!

And that was that. Pick up the drugs, then get home to create a spreadsheet to help me programme and track what I take, and when.

Now it's just comply with the regime and wait. Oh and rest - rest properly. Uh oh, now that is going to be difficult.........................