I have been pondering on luck.
Not luck in a major sense, you understand, as in winning the Lottery, but in the dozens of lucky moments that occur in any one day. Like
today, for instance.
As I left the house at 8.29 a.m. bound for a hospital appointment, I saw the 8.30 bus sweep past on its way into town. If I hadn't stopped to make a mug of coffee for Mr B before I left,
I'd have caught the bus, no problem. What bad luck! But, hey, only ten minutes to wait for the next one, how lucky to live on the route of the Pulse bus. I thought about walking to the next bus stop (Miss Fit, my poor man's Fitbit would have approved) but
it would have been just my luck if the next bus came early and I missed it by being Between Bus Stops. No sense in tempting fate, I decided.
The 8.40 bus turned up exactly on time. Because I was twirly (as
in too early) to use my bus pass, I had to pay the £2.90 single fare to the hospital. Luckily (that word again!) I had raided Mr B's tobacco savings tin - with his permission, I hasten to add - for some loose change; I doubt the bus driver would have
been too pleased with me if I'd proffered a tenner. She didn't realise how lucky she was...
The Eye Clinic was crowded with people. It looked as if it would be a long wait. The nursing staff were clearly dong
their best to ease the situation by providing a trolley with the wherewithal to make cups of tea or coffee. What's more a large screen TV on the far wall was showing The Housing Enforcers. I settled down with a coffee to wait and watch.
I love The Housing Enforcers because it gives due credit to the hard work of local authority Housing officers, the unsung heroes and heroines of Council workers. On afternoon TV you can watch rich people agonising over a move to the
country, dismissing kitchens in beautiful converted barns as being too small or gardens being overlooked. On The Housing Enforcers a young single mother will view a very ordinary two bedroomed flat with basic kitchen and a shared garden and tearfully say it
is her "dream home."
I've only just started watching when my name is called. I see a nurse who tests my eyes and says the doctor will see me shortly. I should be so lucky, I think. Except that I am. I've barely
sat down again and tried to catch up on the Housing Officers sorting out a neighbour dispute (oh, how lucky I am to have such lovely neighbours!) when I am called in to see the doctor. I kid you not, by 9.45 I am at the bus stop, waiting for the bus to carry
me home. I don't know what all the other people in the waiting room thought to see me waltz in and out so quickly. "Lucky so-and-so!" they probably muttered to each other.
Mr B loves a Chinese meal every so
often. When the sweet fella from the Asian Village calls round to deliver his menu of choice, he always says he hopes I will enjoy my meal. I don't like to ruin his happy expectations by telling him that I don't actually like Chinese food and that the only
parts of the meal I will sample will be a couple of prawn crackers and one of the Fortune Cookies. What is more, I must restrain myself from protesting that Mr B always seems to find a positive message in his Fortune Cookie, while I invariably find a challenging
Take tonight. The message inside Mr B's cookie reads: "Be prepared to accept a wondrous opportunity in the days ahead!" Never for a minute would I begrudge him his opportunity, particularly if it is,
indeed, wondrous. My message, however, reads somewhat dourly: "Luck helps those who help themselves." Gee, thanks" - as many a cartoon character might exclaim.
Mr B points out that he did allow me "first pick."
I can hardly argue with the inevitable cast of the die.
It's just the way the (Fortune) cookie crumbles...