‘So,’ he said, ‘You think yourself unlucky?’
He let out a chuckle, as a chimney lets out smoke; a quiet puff of malevolence put forth.
‘I knew a man,’ he continued, ‘who had what you might call a difficult week. On Monday he was, believe it or not, head-butted by a llama. On Tuesday he accidentally swallowed his boss’s car-key. On Wednesday, no less, his house was broken into and all his books stolen. On Thursday his girlfriend’s arm was broken by an angry swan. On Friday, for Friday it was, he was hypnotized by a professional magacian and broke the law eighteen times within an hour. On Saturday his brother died. On Monday, the following one, I met this man and asked him whether he thought himself unlucky. Do you know what he said?’
I shoke my head wearily.
‘He said “not at all. Not in the slightest. For guess what? Sunday passed quite without incident“‘
(Pyetr Turgidovsky, A Sea of Blood is Not Enough)