“Ah yes, superstition; it would appear to be cowardice in the face of the supernatural.”
(Yes, the exciting news is still coming, sit tight)
Not being a suspicious person, Friday the 13th holds few terrors for me. In my single woman incarnation I would throw Hitchcock parties on Friday-the-13ths but otherwise largely ignored the day.
However, J. and I are looking to sell our car. Yes, my beloved Indy… She’s a lovely motor vehicle, but she’s as old as my little sister and doesn’t do well on highways. We’re looking for a car that will get us through grad school and (if we’re lucky) the birth of at least one child. We’ve found a guy who takes older cars, fixes them up and sells them for a modest profit and are crossing our fingers. We made an appointment to meet with him today, vacuumed and washed Indy to make her extra pretty, and then began getting paperwork together. Contract of sale, history of maintenance, dealer info…
…when we discovered the title is nowhere to be found.
And believe me we searched. J. turned the house upside down and I spent hours ripping our office to shreds, but to no avail. We think it got lost when I moved from my old flat to our new one.
This is not an insurmountable tragedy, indeed the problem is easily fixed, but I still break out in a cold sweat to think that I’ve been driving around blithely for goodness knows how long without proof that I actually own my car. I may or may not be slightly more wary of Friday the 13ths from henceforth.