Friday the 13th

I file this blog from a locked and darkened room where I sit armed with a bottle of organic cider. So what am I hiding from? Friday the 13th, which I don't believe in.You don't believe? So what's with the cowering? Who mentioned cowering? But more to the point I've found today that with Friday the 13th, like with other people's religions, you don't have to believe for it to get you into trouble. And yes, I realise that statement could get me into trouble, but after the day I've had, a fatwah couldn't be much worse. At the ripe old age of 32 I've lived through many Friday the 13ths, and have come through each one unscathed - until today. So what was different - well this one ambushed me. It wasn't until half-way through the afternoon I even realised it was Friday the 13th, by which time the day already had its claws into me. It was at this time it was pointed out to me that several of the stories I had added to thisisplymouth had the wrong date on. A minor annoyance, quickly solved, but it came shortly after several important functions on thisisplymouth had been down for a couple of hours, and shortly before I noticed several others weren't working either. All quickly solved, with the help of technicians in Derby, Exeter, London and Mumbai, but then again it seems Friday 13th respects the workplace, so it didn't really kick in till I clocked off. Granted, that was an hour and half after my allotted finish time, but I put that down to a blind dedication to the job, rather than Friday the 13th. So what happened next? Well just a few miles out of work the car cut out. Dead as a pretty blond virgin in a Friday the 13th film. I had just enough time to try the ignition a couple of times, check the petrol gauge to ensure I hadn't run out of fuel (my usual trick) and to pull the car right into the most awkward place on the road before it rolled to a stop. And where did this happen? A quiet and safe little back road, or the busiest, hard-shoulder free junction of the A38? You guess. So there the car sat in the fast lane, while I took shelter behind a tree shouting into my mobile trying to get the AA woman to understand where I was."Marsh Mills!" I shout. "Marshmellows?" She replies. "Marsh Mills." I shout "Mars Hills?" She replies. This goes on for some time. When she finally gets it, a truck is dispatched. While I wait, I survey the broken bumpers, bits of glass and halves of registration plates that litter the grass verge. Pondering this detritus of a dozen or more crashes, I try to figure out whether the AA truck will get to my car first, or whether it will be an articulated lorry. I consider dashing back for my ipod. I don't consider it for long. Fortunately it's the AA truck that gets there first. Unfortunately the mechanic tries the ignition once and tells me my timing belt's gone, probably bending all 16 valves and it will probably cost me an arm, a leg and a couple of pounds of flesh. Ahhh, Friday the 13th, how I love you. So is that it? Not by half. The AA man tells me he can take me to a garage in Totnes, drop off the car, and take me home. But he can't take me to Sanderson Motorhouse in Plympton, drop me off, and take me home. Why? I foolishly ask. Ah, he foolishly explains. The logic is twisted and baffling, involving work schedules, emergency call-outs, a route home and a breakdown in Crownhill. By this stage I should be getting infuriated, Instead I'm getting cold, and fearing that if I start to argue the AA man might leave me by the side of the road. Unlikely, but this really hasn't been my day. So I drop the car at Sanderson, from where it was bought at a bargain price a year ago, with the warning that it may not still be under warranty. Of course not. "What about a courtesy car?" I ask. "No chance," I'm told. At this stage the young lady behind the counter looks up and catches something in my eye. Suddenly a Vauxhall Corsa becomes available - so long as I have insurance to cover it. A quick call to my insurance company. A 20 minute wait. Another quick call to my insurance company. Another 20 minute wait. Sanderson lady informs me she is about to go home, locking up, leaving me car-less. Another quick call to my insurance company and Friday the 13th decides to let me have this one. Insurance sorted, car key in hand, I hit the road again leaving my Laguna, bent valves and all, in the hands of mechanics who can't look at it till Monday. Probably for the best. Look at it today and the thing'll probably explode. Half way home I realise that while I have retrieved my ipod, I forgot the doohicky to connect it to the car radio. Which means for the foreseeable future I can no longer listen to the 'Teach Yourself Italian' I downloaded. Which means that when I hit the caffes of Venice later this month, and try to order espresso in Italian, I'll end up saying things like "Excuse me doctor, may I please have half a battered cat and a small Bolivian traffic warden. No thanks, I'll pay for that in squirrels." So I make it home. Three hours late. My daughter, who was in bed when I left for work, is in bed by the time I get home. The chicken, which was for dinner, has inexplicably gone off in the fridge. So off I pop to the local food emporium in the courtesy car. No probs inside, but leaving I realise I have no idea what the car looks like, what the registration number is, or where I parked. Ah well, must go, I've run out of organic West Country cider. I'd go to the kitchen for a top up, but the fridge has been looking at me funny. I'll keep you informed on the car front (I'm sure you're just dying to know), and I haven't forgotten to tell you about the organic custard hunt or the onion skin dilemma. Overall, I think I'm fortunate not to believe in Friday the 13th. I hate to think what it would do to me if I did.