Lucky

I've been doing this blog for almost exactly seven years. My first entry was about the mirror I'd broken the previous day.

Looks like my luck is about to change...

I scraped my hand against a wall on my way to work this morning. That's not going to happen any more. No more grazed hands for Paul, no sir. Fortune may favour the brave, but it also favours the mirror-breakers, seven years in.

Time to start gambling. First up, the Grand National.

I just placed a bet that the Grand National was happening this coming weekend, and got tremendous odds.

William Hill wasn't open, so I decided to bet with Henry Hill (Ray Liotta's character from Goodfellas). I have my fingers crossed that he'll pay out. I know he may not be the most trustworthy of people, as he is both a gangster and deceased.

I should have gone with Hank Hill from King of the Hill. Or Silbury Hill from actual hills.

With my winnings, I'll probably buy some hand balm.

***

I just stabbed myself in the thigh with a fountain pen to emphasise how thin my jeans are.

No, that's not true. No-one uses a fountain pen. Not these days.

I'm finding it difficult to concentrate. It might be the weather. It's close. Humid. Muggy. There's no room to think, because every gap in my brain is filled by the disgusting air.

Yes, I'll blame the weather. I feel like I'm drowning in a grain silo.

I just turned on a small desk fan. It's been on the top shelf for ages, gathering must. Now it's back on, but is very, very weak. It's not blowing away the cobwebs, it's not blowing away the grain. It's barely blowing at all. But to turn it off now would be an admission of failure.

Oh, hang on. It seems to be picking up steam. That's good. I feel vindicated. It's like when you decide against drowning a stupid friend, and then they turn out to have a lovely holiday home. Patience is a virtue.

If I could do anything I wanted to with the rest of my life, I'd like to be caught, paralysed and webbed-up by a giant spider.

Not eaten; that would be horrible. No-one would wish for that.

But if the spider perhaps died of natural causes after the webbing, or moved abroad, it would be an ideal situation for everyone.

I'd be nice and secure. I wouldn't have to worry about paying the bills, or attending christenings, or arranging MOTs. I'd be paralysed, so I could sell all of my juggling clubs.

I could just lie down, in a soft cocoon, on a bed of webs, and have a nice sleep.

What could be better than that?

It's practical, it's economical, and it just makes sense.

And yet, if I were to describe that scenario in a job interview, in answer to the question "Where do you see yourself in ten years' time?", people would be all like "WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?!".

Happy Friday, everyone.