Are the Old Masters trying to get back at me from the grave? Has good Monet been paid to have a Degas plunged into my back? Could there be something mysteriously significant about this, the 13th post, and my being laid low by the dreaded Lurgi? And did you switch off the iron before you left home?
I’m not a triskaidekaphobic (having a fear of the number 13 – see, it is possible to learn something from reading questionable blogs. If you already knew that – I’m sorry. Keep trying). Nor am I superstitious – although thirteen sweaty blokes in a single bed will probably be unlucky – but mainly for the bed. So I shall continue, dear reader, to sully the intentions of those noble painters and sculptors with alternative interpretations of their fine works.
Herewith, then; number 13