is it a sign?

Today, on leaving my chair at the Melting Pot - where I write - in my clumsy way, ( I reject the word dyspraxic although I might be on the lower end of the range) I tripped over my computer cable, not only disconnecting it from the socket, but wrecking the socket in the process.

Then in the building society I noticed some green muck on my fingers. My first thought was: had I unknowingly come into contact with a mashed up avocado?  Further checking revealed a technicoloured mass of bird poo on my coat sleeve.  The building society staff weren't allowed to let me use their bathroom - despite my protestations, my claim that I was on my way to buy food.  They did provide a disinfectant liquid soap and some kitchen towels with which I did a poor job of cleaning the coat, a marginally better one on my hands.  At the time I wondered what their response would have been had I been on the verge of a haemorrhage - Would they then have allowed me access to their loo and risked me - somehow - stealing their money or their pass codes or whatever?

Troubles come in threes, I thought, anticipating a third.






Minutes later, I remembered the stunningly photographed film Under The Tuscan Sun. Those of you who have seen this may recall the pivotal scene when the protagonist, writer and literary critic Frances Mayes, recovering from her failed marriage, on holiday in Cortono Italy, on impulse visits a house for sale.  When the elderly owner realises that there is more interest in the house than she'd anticipated, she doubles the asking price.  Frances admits she can't afford this and is on the verge of leaving when a bird flies into the house and poos on her.  

The owner immediately says that this is a sign, reduces theprice and Frances has a new home, thousands of miles from her native San Francisco.


I therefore wondered if I could regard the bird dropping on my hands and clothes as a sign that something pleasant and unexpected was about to happen.  This is undoubtedly another example of my Walter Mitty -type fantasies.  The bird poo didn't land on my forehead as it did in the film, I was in Edinburgh, not Italy,  I was outside at the time and birds frequently poop.

 This said, I'll keep you posted....


Jane