Scientists have got it wrong. They were off by a whole 24 hours. All this time, we were worried about Friday the 13th, when in fact the dangerous day was Friday the 12th. (Disclosure: my understanding of what scientists actually do may be limited.) Someone tell Jason he gets to sleep in.
It all started when I was informed that I had not sufficiently contributed to the cleaning of the apartment and became determined to make up for my prior lack. Armed with paper and spray, I attacked the glass surfaces of the bathroom - the mirror and shower door. Unfortunately, they attacked me back. The metal frame of the shower sliced my finger tip open like a razor, causing me to run to the kitchen for paper towels, spewing blood and a stream of obscenities. After applying a tourniquet (ok, a bandaid - but it was promptly soaked through, needing a second bandaid. The horror!), I left for work.
Fridays find me with time to kill between classes near a friendly restaurant where I go to enjoy the menú de día, a Spanish tradition that includes an appetiser, a main course, a desert and a drink for a reasonable lunchtime price. I unknowingly ordered roast pork with glass, which I discovered to my distress when something crunched in my mouth where no crunch should be. The waiter was suitably apologetic and accommodating, so my freaking out remained silent, as I imagined my intestines being shredded by undetected shards I had already swallowed. I still expect to drop dead from internal bleeding at any point.
Then on the way home, I was taken out, missile-defense-style, by a soccer ball as I rode my bike. I wish there was video footage of the event, because from another perspective, it must have been hilarious to see the ball connect with the back of my head, sending me sprawling and dazed to the pavement. From mine, however, it was merely confusing. One moment, I was riding along, glad the weekend had begun, then suddenly, all I could think was "my head hurts" as I lost control of my limbs and subsequently, my bicycle, and found myself lying at the feet of two women who observed me, unperturbed, from a bench. "He's fine", they diagnosed as I got to my feet, stunned, and a child ran over, apologising profusely.
I approached the evening's gig, surrounded by heavy lighting and sound equipment, electricity and moving musicians, with a fair degree of trepidation. I would have preferred to cower in bed for the remainder of the day, but as Les Fat Jones gig calendar has been rather sparse lately, I didn't want to miss the concert, bleeding limbs, guts and head wounds be damned!
Although we have been playing concerts with the frequency of eclipses or comets, we have maintained a faithful schedule of rehearsing, meaning we have new songs that we know how to play, so the performance went well, the crowd was small but supportive, the main act Julieta Jones were fun, but most importantly, I lived to see the dawn. Put one in the win column.
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