I don’t know if it’s fate, or if my Irish roots are failing me, but I have been having rather a bad run of luck recently.
This morning I broke my favourite mug. It was a big bright Claris Cliff beauty – worth about £100 – that cheers me up every day when I use it for my morning cup of Earl Grey tea. It is, alas, no more.
To mourn its loss I have resolved once again to express my inner anguish through the majesty of song and compose a little ditty about it later this afternoon. (The Baby Jeebus has intimated to me that he likes it when I do such things and usually offers me temporary protection from further occurrences on the condition I undertake a private performance for him late at night.)
By way of slight compensation, I have just received an email telling me I have won a competition. First prize: a ghost. Great. I have won a ghost in a competition.
Some children threw a snowball at me yesterday and it surprised me so much that I actually broke wind – very loudly. Then I fell over on the ice, dragging Audrey with me along the pavement for several metres. For some reason, as I went down I called out ‘Fajita!’ which I thought was rather odd.
None of this would have bothered me too much except for the fact that the gorgeous blond woman with the roguish Red Setter we sometimes see on the rec’ was running for a bus on the opposite side of the road.
I saw her laugh.
A few weeks ago I played poker with a witch and lost every hand; perhaps this has something to do with everything.
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