nunoncastors

I am the victim of a phenomenon; potentially a Gipsy Curse, for I find that the extent to which inanimate objects – indeed the world at large – conspire against me is dependant entirely upon my mood. It smacks of eldritch naughtiness, frankly.

Take my garden gate for example; the green wooden bastard. Should I wake up nice and early, enjoy my breakfast and be in a buoyant frame of mind, he’s fine. No problem at all. Should I have endured a night of fitful sleep however, accidentally poured orange juice on my cereal and burnt my toast, he’ll be an absolute fuck. The lock that usually turns instantly will take five minutes of awkward jiggling and fumbling, for reasons unknown, until I eventually lose my temper and begin kicking and swearing at the fucking thing, which then, mysteriously, opens.

Then there’s this morning, a prime example of my being ensorcelled, because, despite running through the same routine I follow every morning, I managed to catch my rucksack straps on everything, my keys wouldn’t come out of my pocket, the front door wouldn’t unlock, the gate wouldn’t lock, the shed door attached itself to my rucksack, my bike refused to change gear and the wind blew in my face irrespective of which direction I happened to be going in.

Eventually, part-way between Wilford and Ruddington, as I stopped my bike to remove yet another stick that’d decided to wedge itself in to my spokes, I gave in and screamed at the world to fuck off and leave me alone. It didn’t, but I felt a bit better. Anyone else suffer from this kind of nonsense?