The broken mirror lay in hundreds of shattered pieces on my bathroom floor, having fallen off the wall while I was out. I had hung it with one of those ‘easy fix’ sticky-back hooks that don’t require drilling or screws. You know the ones. They don’t damage your walls or your tiles. And they don’t work.
The one I used to fix this small, very light mirror above the sink worked for about three weeks. It was so easy I thought I had cracked it. From now on I would do all my DIY with sticky-back hanging hooks.
I could probably finish the house by using them if I really put my mind to it. It was easier than trying to learn how to use a drill which always starts off well then halfway through the explanation my eyes glaze over and by the time whoever is showing me gets to the bit about the rawl plug I’m halfway around Aintree in my head, winning the Grand National (again).
Anyway, I thought this sticky-back hanging thing was the answer to all my problems. Then while I was out one day it gave up and the mirror fell off the wall and smashed to bits.
I came home, stared down at the sharp, glittering pieces and the thought entered my head: thank goodness. Only seven years bad luck to go. Not 47, as I had been assuming. Only I could celebrate breaking a mirror, I realised, as I shovelled up shards of glass.
I didn’t even pray to be spared the oncoming misfortunes as that was pointless. They had to come. I wanted to get on with it. I didn’t have long to wait as the next day someone rang to say Tara had been found dead in her field.
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