I don't know where we get that strange superstition that causes us to think that if we empathise with someone at the right time, on the right day, it will somehow cause good things to happen. At two o'clock this afternoon, my second born was due to take possession of the keys to his flat. This notable achievement has not been without its difficulties, not least of which is that he's buying it in the Netherlands. A dyslexic by trade if not by choice, he would have struggled with this transaction in English, but hopefully he will have got there in the end. I was a little uneasy about the extra hour, should I be thinking hard at his 2 o'clock or mine ? As if.
I remember standing in front of my old Drama School on the day he went for his interview at London College of Fashion. Not that I travelled there on purpose, I hasten to add, not even I would seek to give my child an unfair advantage but such an extreme act of white witchiness. It was pure coincidence, but one I thought would be very lucky, and so, eventually, it turned out to be. On the down side, I remember making a conscious attempt to avoid knowing the date on which my mother quite suddenly and with absolutely no preparation for the rest of us, died. I had a vague recollection that people would refer to the anniversary of someones death as a difficult day to get through in subsequent years, so I thought I'd have a go at avoiding it if I could. Consequently I'd be in a foul mood for the first half of December, by the time Christmas actually arrived I'd be thinking,
" Thank God for that, she must be dead by now."
It was only after Dad died, this time after Christmas and with plenty of time for all of us to prepare, much good that did us, that the spell was broken.
"Oh well," said my sister, " Dad the 17th of January and Mum the 17th of December."
Poor old Jen, her birthday is September 17th, so she'd been saddled with it for the last twenty years.