Other people’s car troubles

So, I shook off the curse – the one that made me rip a wound in the back of my Dad’s car, then dent a large hole into his bonnet, then ding the back of my boss’s rental car, then transport my car to Joburg on the train that supposedly derailed. Understandably, I’m breathing a bit easier these days, but it seems I’ve passed the curse on to those around me. So, if you know who I am, stay the hell away for a while, and if you don’t, I can’t guarantee that reading this won’t jinx you.

Still reading? Well, you’ve been warned.

The day before my colleague was scheduled to sell his Beemer back to the dealership – a car he’s had for a couple of years and taken impeccable care of, and needless to say has never so much as scratched – the office manager at work reversed into his bumper. D’oh!

Then then then… yesterday, my boyfriend was singled out as fate’s (or my) next victim. “Liefie, tell me how your day went first – mine was downright kak” I remember saying. To paraphrase – omitting most of the “fuck!”s that were flying around – he was on his way to varsity when he went round a traffic circle, and an idiot girl and her mom decided to leap into the road (this is his version of the story, I haven’t had it corroborated from her side, but a lass has to support her boyfriend, doesn’t she?) and get knocked by his side mirror. He pulled to the side of the road, jumped out and started screaming at them (they naturally blamed him for the incident), so they turned and walked off (hopefully not in the direction of the nearest lawyer’s office). He then decided to get a quotation for the completely smashed side mirror, and while trying to reverse out of the repair shop’s parking lot, connected with a car “in his blindspot” (funny how that excuse never gains me any sympathy). He says he swore so loud that people were coming out from buildings all around to see who the perpetrator of such foul-mouthed commotion was. The bumper popped off its hooks, but the owner was able to pop it back on, and is apparently fine with the hairline paint cracks the connection caused.

So, seemingly, The Gilb is off the hook (don’t you only have 72 hours to lodge a docket with the police? He’s 48 hours away from freedom). He was so pissed off yesterday he thanked me rather rudely for the little gift of an Oppikoppi ticket I secretly deposited in his wallet the night before… a girl can just never win, can she?

Before I sign off, you’ll no doubt be wondering how I survived the 10km BlueIQ Marathon – I didn’t, because the fuckers cancelled the race. So the weekend consisted entirely of drinking, a little lacklustre booty-shaking (it’s hard to get down on the dancefloor amid bomber jacket-clad poppies in Midrand) but some good times spent with friends…