So help me God, I will not relate the revolting sight of that toilet.

Saturday morning 6a.m, the siren went off indicating the morning’s head count.

Somewhere inside me I still harboured hope that the nightmare would be over in a matter of days and I could put the whole ordeal behind me.

Mulling over why I had to travel in a prisoner transport van, it became clear when the doors were opened. The media orgy was inconceivable. Momentarily blinded by an explosion of flashlights and microphones being shoved in my face, it was too late to duck.

The interpreter was a stern-faced stout lady with short curly hair and horn-rimmed glasses that kept sliding off her nose. She spent an entire ten minutes translating my rights from a book word by word. They started by pushing for the address of the Slovenians so they could continue the search and locate my passport to make sure I was in the country legally. After perusing a map , we set out in four patrol cars so I could make proper identifications. This time, not without handcuffs slapped on my wrists.

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No sooner had I recovered from the post-traumatic snow disorder than That Guy starts bugging me to get to work which meant dispatching the checks in my possession. I honestly didn’t want anymore to do with it. I was just hell-bent on starting out afresh, hopefully meeting some Polish bloke and living happily ever after.