Friday the 13th
I know you won’t agree. You’ll say I’m talking rubbish, nonsense—old wives tales. But Friday the 13th is bad luck. How do I know? Experience, that’s how! I was born prematurely on September 13th, 1946—a Friday – and apparently the midwife had to give me a really good slap on the bum before I yelled. I spent three months in the incubator.
That was my introduction to Friday 13th. On July 13th 1951, another bloody Friday, I was nearly five years old when my baby sister was born—poor kid. She didn’t get a much better start than I did. I was ignored by my mother and father who spent day and night, or as much time as they were allowed, at the hospital, looking after my sister. I was palmed off onto various relatives, as my parents were too exhausted to pay any attention to me. I didn’t sleep for months and started wetting my bed again.
August 13th 1965, another bloody Friday, I was to take my driving test. I tried to get the day changed. I begged the examiner, “Please, please any other day, not Friday, it’s the 13th; something bad will happen, I know it.”
“Nonsense,” he answered. “Bunkum! Don’t be a bloody fool.”
“OK, on your head be it.”
He just laughed—his last laugh. We stopped to get a Coke on the way back from the testing circuit. He was driving, I of course still didn’t have my licence—and he opened the door without looking. Without an arm, leg or neck to find a pulse, the paramedics pronounced him dead on the spot. I warned him, he wouldn’t believe I was bad luck. I didn’t get my licence either, although the examiner told me I’d passed. He put the test-sheet in his pocket when he got out the car; it was scraped off the road with the examiner.
Next, I’m about to get married; my fiancée arranges the wedding for June 13th 1969, another Friday.
“Don’t worry, “she says,” giving me a very sexy kiss, “I know how you feel about Friday 13th, but I promise you, your luck will change.”
“No,” I replied; “You don’t understand! I have nothing but bad luck on Friday 13th, no matter what I do. I usually spend the day in bed.”
“Don’t worry about that,” she replied with a naughty smile; “You’ll definitely get to spend the day in bed. I’ll make sure of that. I don’t want you to be anywhere else.”
Coming down the church steps, I tripped on my new bride’s long wedding gown. It was ripped right off and she was standing there in nothing but her bra and panties. But that wasn’t the worst; I fell down the stairs and broke both my ankles and crushed my right knee. I spent the day in bed all right—a hospital bed. Our honeymoon was delayed for six weeks.
The bad start to the marriage continued. After two short years we couldn’t stand each other any more. We agreed to an amicable divorce. The decree nisi was granted on August 13th 1971, a Friday.
“I told you that Friday 13th isn’t my lucky day,” I said to her, on the phone, when it came through.
“Well for you it may be bad luck, but it’s good luck for me. I’m pleased our marriage is over. We weren’t really compatible. You’re very sweet, but you’re a bit crazy.”
“I don’t want to say ‘I told you so’, but we shouldn’t have got married on Friday 13th. That’s what ruined the marriage.”
I have since met a very lovely girl. No, she doesn’t mind me calling her ‘a girl’. She says that she’s happy and proud to be my ‘girl’. I now feel very lucky. I never do anything ever on a Friday 13th. She lets me spend the day in bed. Alone!