The Hefty Hand of Fate

On Friday I bought my ticket to go to New Zealand. I'd arrive at the start of July and my boyfriend would have to endure my presence for nearly 7 weeks (which he agreed to, I think he clearly has forgotten in his delusional state of what it is actually like to live with someone who routinely welds beans to the pan in the simplest of cooking tasks and, due to needing absolute silence to sleep, wears earplugs which inevitably fall out during the night and end up in the most unlikeliest and irritating of places).

I'd finally understood that I was going to have to part with a considerable amount of cash, and had agreed with my credit card that, in these circumstances, it was okay and I really would pay it off in a month or so. I'd found my ideal traveling dates.

My parents had even arranged their overnight accommodation so they could come and rescue their bedraggled and miserable daughter when I touched down in Heathrow after what would most likely be a fairly emotional farewell in Auckland and a bloody long journey in which to ponder it.

And, most bizarrely of all, I'd agreed to work out there.

In fact, and this is the bit that really stings, it was my idea. Just until the start of August, to finish a project that was 'my baby'. My justification was that my boyfriend was hardly in the position to entertain me and take me sightseeing when I was there, so I might as well earn some money instead of moping around waiting for him to return for the few hours a night we would spend together.

It was a perfect plan. I'd thought of all the possibilities, all the problems, all the issues. And, as far as I could see, I'd combated them all, I'd preempted all feasible possibilities, I was, in my own humble opinion, a genius organiser and really quite amazing.

But I hadn't considered everything.

I was sent an email from ebookers.com on Monday evening at 7pm telling me that I was required to pay an extra £20 in airline taxes or my ticket would be cancelled. And I had 23 hours in which to do this.

Due to my trip to London, I received this email, along with a rather brief email that had followed it precisely 23 hours later, on Wednesday morning at 7:30.

At first I thought it might have been spam or a hoax, a bizarre £20 ransom for my tickets or something equally as inexplicable (it was very early and I was PreTea so anything was possible in my sleep addled brain). After all, I had booked with TravelBag and not ebookers, and the reference numer was completely different.

I did my research, and put two and two together by a piece of Sherlock Holmes worthy investigative techniques: some of the email addresses on TravelBag actually went to ebookers.

I tearfully skyped my boyfriend and told him what had happened (at this point a mere rebooking was in the realms of logical thought, and I was not). He then said that he had received some news that day also.

He was being moved into new accommodation at the end of June. Which, as far as I can gather, hasn't been finished being built yet. This accommodation may, or may not, be complete by then, meaning he may be moving in or he may be housed in temporary accommodation until it is complete, as the company's current tenancy is coming to an end. This new accommodation may, or may not, have internet access at this point. And, from his experience so far, this was erring unhappily on the 'not' side of things.

For most visiting girlfriends, I'm sure this really isn't a concern. For The WebStress, who really kind of needs the internet to be a web designer, it is.

In approximately 20 minutes my whole trip was in tatters, as were my fragile nerves.

Now some people might have winged it, got out there and hoped for the best, been lucky. As I am not, by habit, a lucky person, therefore I take as few risks as feasibly possible, I am extremely reluctant to take the chance card. Mine would most likely say 'go to jail, do not pass go, do not collect £200, and you've no chance of an appeal, sucker' rather than 'wahey, 8mb wireless broadband, unlimited downloads and a flawless connection!'. There's a possible 99.8% chance all would be okay. But the .2% probability that everything would not had my name slapped unavoidably over it.

When the call ended, fate's hefty hand in things quickly became apparent. I had no ticket. But that's just as well because I couldn't work out there. However, fate was starting to piss me off a little. Because, yes I was minus a ticket and could therefore continue my work in the UK rather than being workless in NZ, I was still very much 'without boyfriend' and that wasn't a very fun state to be in.

So I got drunk. Slept on it. Woke up (with a headache). And awaited the receiving of fate's destiny card that would tell me exactly what to do, whether to abandon all work commitment and financial stability and certainly not get a reference, and follow my heart (costly but satisfying) or whether to stick out the end of the project, and a few more weeks without my boyfriend, and then go over for a holiday.

I hate letting people down, so much so that I will do over and above to ensure that I don't as much of the time as possible, or at least let them know how awful I feel if I donfulfillfil my intentions. If I leave work, I leave a project that I put blood sweat and tears (literally, although I'm not so sure about the blood thing) into getting approved. It was, not to put too much weight on it, the reason I stayed with the company. And I let people down.

And if I don't go, well then, I hurt. A lot.

A few extra weeks to those who haven't endured a separation may not seem like an awful lot. But I have managed 5 weeks so far, and I bloody know it. And, if I'm honest, without work to do, I'm going to get mightily bored waiting for my boyfriend to return on an evening. While I'd love to be an Indiana Jones esque explorer and roam all over New Zealand, well, that's not really seeing my boyfriend either and if I'm going to be so adventurous then I'd quite like to do it when its all hot and sunny, and not in the middle of winter.

I guess, really, I know what I'm going to do. But it really, really sucks.