Born Under a Bad Sign

Day 1

‘Start a gratitude journal’ they said, Well, here it is, started. It’s purposely not credited with any dates, because I don’t expect to be making consecutive entries. But the fact that it is started should qualify as gratitude on some count. Gratitude on their part that I’ve agreed to do it, for a start. I mean, what good is it supposed to do? I’ve certainly not got anything to be grateful for with this burden lobbed on me

Day 2

Today started off well. I knocked a saucepan of boiling milk over. It was the last of the milk in the fridge so guess who had no breakfast? The fact that it didn’t go all over me is a saving grace, I suppose, but it tipped over the other way and was nowhere near me. And I had to clean up, which meant I was late for work. The lyrics from that old Blues song by Albert King says it all really: ‘if it wasn’t for bad luck I wouldn’t have any luck at all.’ Born under a Bad Sign: thanks Albert! Does that count?

Day 3

That was a week ago now, and nothing much has happened since. Unless, of course, you count my having checked my lottery ticket to see that I had apparently won 10 grand - only to later discover that I'd checked last week's ticket? And I'd accidentally chucked this week's out with the trash anyway so I couldn't have claimed anything if I had won. Still, I expect it would have stopped my knobhead mates bumming off me, so there is that.

Day 4

Here’s one to pass by the psychotherapist. There’s this cafe. It's a new place up in the weirdo quarter where everyone goes barefoot, wears rope bracelets, leaves the smell of questionable substances behind, and eats vegetation that even rabbits would wrinkle their noses at. But they do a decent coffee, and the cakes are out of this world. I suspect that some of them would actually send you out of this world, temporarily at least. But I was only there for coffee, so I flolloped up to the counter. It’s the sort of place where you automatically flollop rather than walk. The atmosphere is so laid back it’s almost comatose. 

Anyway, up I flolloped up the counter to order and stood marvelling at the array of cakes laid out behind the glass topped counter whilst I waited for the drink to be conjured up. The server brought it and I handed over the cash to pay. But my hand was so laid back as to be comatose itself - as was the server’s - and the cash, deciding to have nothing to do with either of these witless appendages, immediately flew into the air, to land with a series of ‘plops’ right in the middle of the dreamiest looking cream cake laid out behind the counter. Where it slowly sank, as we both watched dumbfounded. 

Throwing me a tight little smile, the server whisked the cake away for a practised shave and lathering of another layer and brought it back, resplendent. This time, rather than risk the same thing happening, she put the cash in a glass dish on the counter top … well, you can guess the rest. This time the same cake exploded, spreading cream everywhere. The server - and me - gasped simultaneously, and throwing me an even tighter little smile, she stormed off into the kitchen to retrieve the money and left the cake in there. It must have been a major scaffolding job. When I did actually get my change, I put it in the Famine Relief Box.. I thought it best. 

Well, I didn’t get thrown out - or charged for the cake either. So there is that.

Day 5

These psycho-babble people are all the same. The clue is in the ‘psycho’. I mean, you can be ‘grateful’ that you’re not dead or that someone else has got this awful disease and not you - but that’s just life. Or death. It’s nothing you can change. It just happens. It does tend to happen more to some people than others, though, And the psychotherapist can wrap his notepad around this one.

I was late for work today for an important set-up meeting because (a) the alarm hadn’t gone off and (b) because I was late, I’d decided to drag the bike out of retirement to make up for lost time (traffic at this time of day is ludicrous so the car was bound to get stuck - a bike would make better sense).

The bike hadn’t been used for some time, so I don’t know what I was expecting. The tyres were flat, and after I had eventually found the pump, wheeling it down the lawn the chain fell off. Mechanic I am not. It’s one of these complicated gear sprockets with the chain going all ways but which. Anyway, I finally got it threaded and set off freewheeling downhill. Then I put it into gear … and everything stopped - except the rider, who absorbed all the considerable momentum of the bike via the handlebars crushing the nether regions. With everything locked, the bike - and me - fell over and were obviously going nowhere. So, I threw it on my shoulder and limped back up the hill to throw it back in the shed. Halfway up the steps the bike snagged on a clematis plant, which got uprooted and the bike fell off my shoulder. Bending to pick it up, the seat of my trousers ripped. Trudging up the lawn with the bike, my feet slipped in the mud - I forgot to say it had been raining solidly for the past three days - and I sat down heaviy on the lawn, in the mud, with my backside hanging out. When I threw the bike in the shed, I also threw a savage punch at the saddlebag. And was rewarded by the merry tinkle of breaking glass as my lunchtime thermos shattered.

Now, psycho, where’s the gratitude in that?

Day 6

I’ve been reading all this stuff back over the past few days and, you know what? I’ve actually found myself appreciating it. Who knew that I had a talent for depicting real events? Despite the aggravation at the time, viewed in retrospect, how things turned out were quite amusing. I mean, no-one would believe them, but isn’t that what writing is supposed to challenge? I reckon I might do a bit more of this.

Day … God knows when

I stopped writing this journal ages ago, for a very good reason. As my last entry suggested, I had a bit of an epiphany so I started exploring an otherwise unsuspected talent. And, you know what? I pulled together all the crazy things that have happened to me over the years, put them in an article and the local regional magazine has only just gone and published it! One hundred and fifty smackeroonies right into the inky fingers of this rookie writer!

Thank you psycho. There - you got it!