It has been a long week. Sometimes things just don’t seem to go right, if you know what I mean?
It’s almost as if the world has decided that, for a while, you’re going to be facing several challenges at once.
As you may know, I am a very positive sort of chap and I don’t allow myself to be downhearted, but just lately things have been a trifle difficult.
I’m not looking for sympathy, by the way. Oh no!
I’m simply going to analyse what I think some people call the “bad things come in threes” phenomenon.
It began last Thursday when our delightful little dog, Eric, suddenly began to whimper and whine.
He curled up in a tight little ball and put his head on my foot.
He was clearly in pain. Bad pain.
That’s the worst thing with animals, isn’t it? They can’t speak and you find yourself trying to guess what the problem might be.
After six hours we called the vet, Luis.
He’s one of those people who just care about animals, which is not always the case with vets in my experience.
It was 11pm by now and he came trundling down our track as if it was a normal thing to do.
It turned out to be a very bad muscular spasm and he gave Eric an injection, an anti-inflammatory and some pills, and he is slowly recovering.
In the middle of this crisis my mobile rang.
It was the neighbour of my aunty, who was not well – really not well.
She has no children, her husband died many years ago and she is my oldest living relative.
What to do? It’s a no brainer, isn’t it?
I was on the computer booking flights, a hire car and in England the next day – leaving “she who must be obeyed” to care for Eric.
But aren’t people wonderful?
My aunty’s neighbour and his wife were going away in their caravan, which is why they called me.
They insisted I stayed in their house while I dealt with my aunty’s problem.
Within a day she was in a respite home and I was looking for people who could support her so that she could cope at home.
By then I was waiting for the third thing to go wrong.
Remember the “bad things come in threes” point I made earlier? It happened the next morning.
I got up, performed my normal morning routine and couldn’t find my tablets.
I take a pill each day to prevent gout, you see.
I know, too much good living! Anyway, I had forgotten them, hadn’t I?
I went to a pharmacy and asked for some.
The pharmacist was very concerned, but explained that they were “prescription only”.
I had forgotten that was the case in the UK, since I simply buy them over the counter in Portugal.
So there I was, with Eric recovering, my aunty being cared for and no tablets to stave off the uric acid build-up in my big toe joint!
If the theory is correct, though, that should be it.
I have had three things go wrong. Surely no more!