If you know me at all, you will know that above all else, I am rather an unlucky person. Not much works out for me the way I’d like it to; not job interviews, not nail polish, not diets, or experimental cuisine. My hair has a life of its own and I can’t ever do my signature the same way twice, causing shop keepers to believe I am, in fact, an identity thief when I try to pay by cheque. Waiters very often bring me the wrong food order when I eat out and I’m pretty sure my cat hates me, judging from the way he squirms for freedom when I hold him. I always seem to be the one who picks a suspicious, dark hair from my food and in fact, about two weeks ago when we were eating at my parent’s house, I came across a huge piece of cow fur in my steak pie. Not just one strand of hair either, it was literally a thatch of cow fur attached to cow skin. Gak! Really though, why was that particular part of steak pie on my plate? Why didn’t anyone else get it, why is it always me?
I certainly don’t play the lottery as I never ever win anything (except one time when I was about 8 years old and in Mrs Pegg’s class and I entered a hard-boiled-egg-painting competition. But the sad truth is I only won that competition because I painted my two eggs as cats and named them after Mrs Pegg’s real life cats, which was admittedly a pathetically obvious bid to win over the teacher’s affections and in the end, even though I did win a Barbie Easter egg, I would rather not have won that prize at all because the other children were calling me a Teacher’s Pet for a long time afterwards, which kind of reinforces the whole unlucky idea). Scratch cards are another pointless pursuit for me. All I end up with is three non-matching symbols and a pile of silver stuff stuck under my nails because I couldn’t find a coin to scratch with.
As if I wasn’t unlucky enough with all that going on, my body gets in on the game too. I am always the one to get strange, unheard of embarrassing ailments, such as black spots, symmetrical spots, and, of course, the mysterious case of cutaneous tuberculosis. The fact that one of the many symptoms of the latter was a massive lesion that covered my entire nose - turning it as red as a clown’s - sums up my life perfectly. I am a bit of a clown, let’s just be honest about it.
The thing is though, even after all that, I don’t like to complain about life too much because in the grand scheme of things I am extremely lucky for all that I have. I have love and family and friends and enough money and all my limbs are intact. I’m not blind or deaf and I have my health back almost as good as new. It is because of all of these things, I feel, that I have such bad luck in the small, day-to-day sense, where no matter what I do, I make an ass of myself or a bird poos on my new jacket or something ridiculous like that.
There is some kind of force, which is stronger than I am, dictating that I be in the wrong place at the wrong time. So I have just had to make peace with the fact that I am and always will be a wee bit of an eejit. A lovable eejit, as my grandpa once said, but an eejit all the same.
Which is why I’m trying to laugh at the fact that this weekend I got in a car with a complete stranger, thinking it was FP, and began shouting at him in English. Where the hell have you been? I said, angrily buckling my seatbelt. I’ve been waiting in the rain for ages, I’m bloody soaked through, I screeched as I flung my handbag on the backseat and crossed my arms. Arrrghhhh I roared for extra effect. And when I turned to my left and saw an extremely confused, frightened man in his 50’s cowering away from me, I thought I was literally going to pass out from shock. I grabbed my handbag and uttered some words of apology before jumping out of the car as fast as I could, spotting monsieur FP sitting in his Nissan on the other side of the road, chuckling away.
It was the exact same car. The exact same colour. Sitting in the space where FP often parks. Now if that isn’t proof that I’m unlucky, then I don’t know what is.