If Clint Eastwood appeared at my door doing a survey to determine the number of punks feeling lucky, I’d simply introduce myself by my middle name, Jinx.
I have rubbish luck.
I’ve never won a raffle prize. Or the lottery. Or been in the right place at the right time. Instead, I plod along from one unexpected blip to another.
In the last few weeks, my roof leaked, my car broke down, my computer crashed, my phone smashed, my toaster blew up, I lost my purse, I fell over, I got two parking tickets, and last Thursday I dropped and decimated a packet of Hobnobs.
But there was a wee ray of exciting good fortune on the horizon.
I was flying to New York last Friday morning to work there all weekend on the novel I’m writing with my pal, Ross King, who’s based in LA. We thought we’d meet halfway and do the final edit before we send it in to the publisher.
If you watch Ross on Daybreak, you’ll know that – when he’s not writing a novel – he’s a regular jet-setter who zips around the globe, interviewing stars and inhabiting celebrity circles. Meanwhile, I’m a fairly knackered mother of two whose life has all the balance of Kylie Minogue and John McCririck on a see-saw.
My daily existence has no glamour. None. I sit at a laptop making up imaginary people for up to twelve hours a day, usually seven days a week. I wear trousers with elasticated waists. I spend every night and all weekend transporting the brood to their 4,529 sports and music activities.
And even though saying, ‘I’m flying to New York for the weekend’ sounds swanky, the reality was a little different. We’d booked an airport hotel, an hour outside Manhattan. The plan was to jump straight off the plane, work for forty-eight hours, back on plane, home. The closest I’d actually get to Manhattan was buying a postcard with the NYC skyline at the airport.
Still, in my usual stressed-out state, I was so looking forward to two relaxing plane journeys, movies each way and a read of a Jackie Collins. Bliss. Lucky me!
Turns out the Universe had other plans.
On Thursday afternoon, I collected Low the Younger from school and he was feeling unwell. Nauseous. Pain in stomach. Dreadful colour.
Despite being the queen of the overreaction, I stayed calm, wrapped him up in bed, inclined to think it was the bug that’s doing the rounds. Within an hour or so, I knew it wasn’t.
The wee soul was doubled up in pain, vomiting, clutching the right side of his abdomen. We hurtled up to the A&E at the RAH in Paisley to have him checked out. The doctors and nurses were excellent and seven hours later, at 1 a.m., he was transferred by ambulance to Yorkhill, as there was a possibility that surgery would be required. When we arrived, the medical staff there examined him and decided to hold off until morning. It was the right decision. Over the next couple of days, it became clear that it wasn’t the original suspected diagnosis of appendicitis, but a virus that had caused glands in his abdomen to become inflamed and swollen.
I never did get to New York and I didn’t care in the least. Because after spending time in a children’s hospital surrounded by sick children, with anxious parents sleeping beside them, holding hands across the beds, you realise that nothing else matters.
Unlucky? Absolutely not.
Low the Younger is fine. We left the hospital, said goodbye to all the fantastic medical staff, the lovely parents and brilliant kids.
And I took my boy home.
That’s how lucky we are.