Smashed a mirror this morning.
A widely held but irrational belief in supernatural influences, especially as leading to good or bad luck, or a practice based on such belief.
Walked under a ladder en route to work.
Excessively credulous belief in and reverence for the supernatural.
Black cat slunk crossed my garden path as I got home.
Bad luck, wife’s tails, myths, ghosts.
Ran in the park, came across a four-leafed clover. Lady Luck finally had me in her sights.
Witchcraft, good luck, prophecies.
Had a really nice dinner tonight. With a boy! It was going so well. Then I spilt the saltshaker. That’s it, I’m done for.
Classical Latin refers to it as of an excessive fear of the gods or unreasonable religious belief.
I’m not superstitious, really I’m not. I just believe in, well, luck. Today I had none, not good luck at any rate. Back to bed.
A winter wonderland…
The grey-white matte sky looms overhead, whilst the select few dog walkers, commuters and runners peer around their front doors at the gloomy outside. The ground was dusted with a sparkling layer of frost, as though someone had dropped Christmas glitter along every crystallised path.
The crumpled leaves stuck in the gutters were made crispy and their veins coated in white frosting. The white-washed landscape was a shade of pale, reminiscent of Christmas fields. The crisp packets and black sacks, abandoned to the chilly dark streets had been frozen in their motions; in time.
The still atmosphere bore no breeze, and the fog clouded as far as the eye can see in every direction. Pedestrians appeared out of the smoke-like fog as though stepping onto the Stars in their Eye’s stage; “Tonight Matthew..”
The gentle ‘pad, pad’ of the frosty granules compacting underfoot left for uneasy walking, and the chill in the air penetrated stings the face bitterly. Long heavy breaths make billowing clouds in the air in front of people’s faces.
The cold iron gates stick to the hands of postmen as they push through, the frost latching onto their equally cold skin. Finger marks become visible in the rapidly melting layer of ice, dripping slowly onto the pale cement below.
Puddles are all glazed over, like glacier mints spread thin, glinting in the barely peeping sunlight, struggling through the thick overcast clouds.
The hedges look spray painted with fake snow, their outermost spines dappled white, whilst the spider’s webs lay coated in droplets of moisture, making the think spines sag under their frozen weight.
It’s a winter wonderland at 6.30 in the morning; views reserved especially for the early risers of the day.
Sad, sad umbrella
It seems floods and rain are the order of the month recently, and in the rise (literally) of the flood water, and I’ve noticed there’s those suffering a sort of genocide, splattered over the pavements- the death of the umbrella.
When the rain starts to hammer down, umbrellas nationwide pop out on edge, fearing for their near future, holding their spines strong in the blustery wind. ‘If I can’t hold this together, they’re gonna bin me. That’s it, I’m a gonner.’
Countless tragedies of lifeless and mangled brollies litter paths, rubbish bins and gutters, laying there sadly and lifelessly, remembering better days when they stood high and strong, protecting their owner from the hammering rain.
It’s a sad moment when you witness one of these losses, carelessly tossed aside like it never existed.
Every time it rains, spare a thought for those sad umbrellas.