I am under the very distinct impression that somewhere along the line of life I became a Shit Magnet. Have you ever heard of them, the Shit Magnets? They are not objects, but people. They lead pretty uneventful little lives were it not for their innate ability to attract shit from all places without even trying.
If I cast my mind back, I can see plentiful signals that make me a Shit Magnet. The opportunistic friends, the crass relatives, the moronic classmates. But these are the obvious things, especially when they come, not just in pairs, but in multitudes, more and more as time goes by.
The not-so-obvious signifiers of my standing as a Shit Magnet, and a royal one at that, are the monthly extras which normal people usually call unforeseen expenses or the unexpected. Well in my case the unexpected is starting to become the expected; the unforeseen is becoming the foreseen; the oxymoronic sure-as-hell surprise factor. What will it be next month? Will it be the roof, the toilet, the shower, the dryer? Or will be the toaster, the fridge, the handle of my bag, the heel of my shoe, the wisdom tooth? Will it be all of these or any combo thereof?
I started the new year at the A&E; now I have a broken washing machine and a car that needs immediate attention. In fact, I am taking it to the doc tomorrow morning as the supposedly successful diagnostics that were run today only cost me £ 30 and yielded a non-result. Of course, God forbid that I could get away with anything less than a mortgage payment when something needs attention around these parts! Mind you, not that I’ve got real reasons to complain, even in passing, about my car, as the only money I’ve thrown at it over the years have been MOTs and tyres. But shit happens, doesn’t it? It sure does and to some people it happens more often, and in greater quantities, than to others. Now if only I could wash my clothes, it wouldn’t stink this badly.