If I didn’t have bad luck, I’d have none at all

I’ve been catching all my lemons in a basket and believe me there’s a lot.

Then I’ve been furiously squeezing all the juice into my eyes.

If I didn’t have bad luck then I’d have none at all.

It seems that at every turn life is trying its best to cause me nothing but misery.

Recently I was struck down by the dreaded norovirus or, as it’s better known, ‘using your toilet as a sofa for five days’.

Then one of my beloved pets decided to ignore all the lovely, processed, bland hamster food I was providing.

He was attempting a hunger strike.

Oh, and then my tyre got a puncture.

And my new dress was ruined during the recommended 40 degree wash.

Could things get any worse?

This is me.

Of course they could and would insist on getting worse.

By the time I walked home I had to take a much-needed nap.

I had, after all, just settled an extortionate garage bill and had to leave Colin to have his tyres seen to.

There was a brief moment of serenity.

“It’s just money,” I whispered and smiled as I felt around down the side of the bed for my beloved cigarettes.

I opened the packet, smiling and content until I discovered they were all gone.

Instant panic set in and I slapped my forehead violently enough to leave a Pandora ring imprint when I remembered that I’d left a full packet in Colin.

Being so late in the evening I knew all the shops would be closed so the only hope I had was in the guise of my bestie, a fellow smoker.

I rang her phone for half an hour straight until it dawned on me that she must be on the night shift.

I frantically raided the cupboard and furiously sucked on the Nicorette stick my doctor gave me then threw it in the direction of the bin.

Having a weak ‘girl’ arm it landed pathetically on the floor just 20 centimetres in front of me. “Damn you, plastic fag!” I squealed. “And damn you arm!”

Soon I was panicking about money, my ruined dress and my freakishly weak arm muscles.

I could feel the oxygen leaving my brain so I opened the back door and was confronted with an Everest of discarded cigarette ends.

Shame isn’t a word I’m familiar with.

Soon I was on my hands and knees searching for a ‘decent’ cigarette that was only half-smoked like it was the Holy Grail.

I got a few good puffs off a couple, but even an attempt at Sellotaping four mini-cigarettes end to end, in an attempt to make a standard sized one, failed miserably.

Soon I was scaling the neighbours’ fence in my PJs to search through their seconds.

They could have been coping with a severe coldsore outbreak but I would have gladly shared a Richmond with Donald Trump if it meant I could smoke.

As the security light came on I toyed with the idea of looking up, covered in mud and shouting for my dog.

Instead I held up a cigarette butt and gazed pathetically at my neighbour’s head, the light encircling their buzz cut like a halo.

He handed me a cigarette.

Sometimes lemons can be sweet.