I was once cursed by a gypsy.

She called me a bastard for failing to fall for a con-job involving a "free flower" and the entire contents of my wallet.

I blame this freak encounter for why I seem to be so fucking jinxed when it comes to doing stuff. What stuff? Any stuff. Any simple stuff that should be stuff-up proof has the potential to turn into a ignominious Stuff Up with a stretched limosine and a well-dressed, white-gloved chauffer driver named Mr Stuff-Up when I’m around. And the thing is, it’s not even my fault. This evil gypsy curse sees the path of my life strewn with the bumbling corpses of other people’s stupidity.

For example:

I spend a weekend ripping out an old open fireplace and then painstakingly re-jibing the wall, painting it, etc, all ready for a flash new gas fireplace. Then the fireplace people turn up and tell me I have to rip everything apart again because they measured wrong. Oh, and we can’t have the fireplace we’d paid for because … they’d measured wrong. What we want won’t fit. But we can buy the more expensive model. If we want.
Fuck.

Or then there’s this weekend’s little adventures:

One of my favorite bike/camping shops is going into receivership. Heaps of people losing their jobs, but who cares about that, cos it means great bargains for me as they slash prices to get rid of stock. Fucking sweet.

So I splash out and buy a flash big-ass tent. Then get it home and discover -- after spending three hours trying to erect something that should only take 10 minutes -- that a whole heap of poles and assorted shit are missing. Fuck.

The next day we buy a nice double swing/slide/see-saw set for D-Girl.
It’s a kitset job, which means having to read Chinese, but still, should only take half an hour. Three hours later I discover that it too is missing crucial components. And D-Girl wants to play on it NOW.
Fuck.

Fuck-fuck-fuckity-fuck.

(If any of you are ever in London and you come across a smelly old Gypsy hag offering free flowers in Leicester Square, do me a favour. Kill the bitch and then rip her black heart out and eat it.
It’s the only way to set me free from this curse.

Cheers.)

On an unrelated matter, if any of you are travelling through the Welsh moors and you come across a werewolf with a white stripe down its back, could you please also pop a cap in its ass as well?

Cheers.