Tag Archives: Superstition

Unlucky For Some Blog Readers

13 Jan

I feel I ought to acknowledge the date, it being Friday the 13th; but I’m not at all superstitious so, other than, ‘I’m not at all superstitious’, I don’t know what to say about it. 

I trawled my archives to see if I’d written about this date before, and all I found was this post from 2009, which starts on Friday 13th.  Enjoy.

Friday 13/11/09:

Wonderful son tells doting mother he will be catching the earliest train home from uni next weekend (Sunday).

Saturday 21/11/09:

Doting mother disgorges humongous chicken from tiny freezer; checks every detail of wonderful son’s untainted bedroom; extra-cleans house.

Sunday 22/11/09: 9 a.m.

Doting Mother phones wonderful son to see what time he will be arriving. Calls twelve times until dear son wakes up. Forgets to ask about train times.

Sunday 22/11/09: 11 a.m.

Loving Mother phones dear son to find out about train times. Annoying son answers after thirty-seventh time, claiming to have been in the bathroom. Enraged Mother so angry she can’t hear what inconsiderate brat is saying; he sends a text.

Sunday 22/11/09: 11:30 a.m.

Livid Mother decides to eat way-too-large chicken herself; notices it is uncooked and opts to beat ungrateful offspring with it, if and when he finally arrives to visit the woman who underwent massive weight gain and major surgery to give birth to him.

Sunday 22/11/09: 11:32 a.m.

Suspicious Mother suddenly remembers that she checked the train times herself last week, and the earliest train handsome son can get is 11:38 and thus has no need to wake up early to reassure over-anxious and forgetful mother that he will be home as early as he can.

Sunday 22/11/09: 11:33 a.m.

Contrite mother agonises for many minutes on whether to phone righteously outraged son to apologise; send a grovelling text; or pretend nothing has happened. Ponders the possibility of a terrible train accident that will rob her of the chance to say ‘sorry’ and leave their last conversation as their last conversation. Decides she can’t take the chance and texts wonderful son to tell him to read today’s blog.

Sunday 22/11/09: 13.30 p.m.

Wonderful son arrives home to doting mother.  She hopes.

Sunday 22/11/09: 12.15 p.m.

The best son in the world phones to reassure his neurotic mother that he still loves her; to explain that his phone was on vibrate from last night, which is why he didn’t hear it in the toilet; to confirm that he forgives her; and to apologise for missing the earliest train home due to a misunderstanding about Sunday bus timetables, but believes he will get there eventually. Much relieved mother relaxes, knowing now that any train crashes won’t leave her living a guilt-filled life; and retires to the kitchen to swallow chickens and put aspirin in the oven.

I’ll Never Be Superstitious (Touch Wood)

7 Nov

I would not say that the Hub and I are superstitious.  I’m pretty sure that superstitions like it’s unlucky to walk under a ladder came from a pot of paint being dropped on the head of whoever started it; and the thing about shoes on the table being unlucky came from the bloke whose mother gave him a good slap for putting dirty boots on her newly-cleaned surface. 

But then there’s football.  The Hub is so Man City-mad that most of our house is decorated in varying shades of blue.  He once bought a red England shirt, wore it once, and had to give it away because it reminded him too much of the Salford team.  He is not superstitious when watching a match, but today he refuses to listen to the City game on the radio, because if he does, they will lose.  They can be winning 1-0 when he turns on the radio but will finish the match 2-1 down.  It never fails.

I think I’ve mentioned this before: he says he supports two teams – City, and whoever United are playing.  But when he’s watching United and supporting the other side, you can bet United will win.  It got to such a point that the Hub fleetingly entertained the idea of supporting United in the hope of making them lose every game and being relegated; but he couldn’t do it even in fantasy: he felt nauseous at the thought.

Besides, he says you can’t cheat the football gods; they don’t like it and he doesn’t want to be avoiding ladders for the rest of his life.

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