I HATE it when you wish someone good luck, and back comes the smug reply: “You make your own luck.”
Sure, being really organised will help, but there are some people who are just born lucky and seem to have access to the Philosopher’s Stone and capable of turning base metal into gold. You know the ones.
Whatever they do in life, they always seem to land on their feet, or as my old Dad used to say: “If they fell down the loo, they would come out with a box of Quality Street.” Then conversely there are those who always drop the bread butter side down.
The ones who realise that the ITV on their car is overdue, and then get pulled over by the Guardia on their way to the test centre. There is good and bad luck – of course there is. Why some have far more than their fair share of either, however, is a mystery.
It’s the same with accident prone people. I have friends who are so butter-fingered, that you would never dream of breaking out the best crystal. You just know that at some point something will get spilt, dropped or knocked over. It’s as inevitable as a politician saying: “Let me be perfectly clear.”
A friend from my younger days was such a person. For some inexplicable reason, he only had to approach a young lady and a run would mysteriously appear in her tights. It happened time and again. He was responsible for more ladders than George Wimpey.
One night travelling home in his Ford Anglia during a heavy storm, both wipers, as if by mutual consent, shot off into the night, leaving two metal spikes eeek eeeking back and forth across his windscreen.
Give him a new Airbus A380 for Christmas, and he would break it by Boxing Day. So don’t give me that guff about making your own luck, it’s a contradiction in terms anyway.
For my part though, I will continue to touch wood and do the lottery.