A friend offers to take me to lunch to cheer me up. I tell him, ‘No, really, don’t. I’m a disaster area when I’m under the weather. You don’t want to get involved.’
I try to explain my theory of cross-catastrophe. I am one of those people for whom troubles come in multitudes. I don’t just get sick, I get sick and then my washing machine explodes and my roof starts leaking and my rabbit eats the Sky cables.
I try to explain that if he really wants to help he will come over and hammer large pieces of crooked wood over my windows. But he won’t listen. He pitches up at my house and insists we take my car to the little French restaurant five minutes away on Wandsworth Common.
I tell him this is madness. If I manage to get us to the restaurant without crashing, I am hardly going to be able to park without infringing every single traffic code in the book.
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