A lot of people dislike Friday 13th, but as my birthday on a 13th, it’s been inevitable that some of those have been Fridays – and they’ve always been splendid. In fact, every Friday 13th has been good for me…except Friday 13th January 1995, which shall forever haunt my nightmares…
Thursday 12th was good; my brother and I boarded the sleeper train in India after a deliciously spicy curry in Hampi. We were enroute to take up our Bollywood acting roles twenty hours away in Bombay.
At 6 a.m. on Friday 13th, I awoke on my top-berth sleeper to find us half an hour away from Bombay, with that rumbling feeling in my stomach that travellers in India know and dread. In the half-light of the carriage I charged towards the single toilet, knocking sleepy fellow travellers out of the way in my mad dash for the stinking cubicle. Which was occupied. ARRGGGH!!
Disaster struck. As Charlotte Brontë would have said, Reader: I shat myself.
And then, the humilating climb to the top bunk to find a clean set of clothes from my backpack. The soiled clothing went through the hole-in-the-floor-toilet and onto the track, where for all I know it still lies, a pungent little monument to a bad Friday 13th and Bombay bowel belligerence.
What’s your best Friday 13th disaster?