Odds against suchoddevents
SATURDAY NIGHT 9.15 PM As a man who’s been dining out in restaurants every night for the past 18 years (I got divorced and don’t like cooking), last Saturday night I was talking to a couple at the next table when my glasses caught fire.
I only discovered this because the waiter, who’d been patiently waiting for me to stop talking, said: “Sorry to interrupt you, Sir, but I thought you might like to know that your glasses are on fire.” Sixinch flames were shooting into the air. I’d put them on the table and the tea-light had set fire to them.
The side bit that holds them behind my ear was now a charred wire with melted plastic and a bit of table cloth. My glasses could have won the Turner Prize.
Tracey at the insurance company said, when I rang them to make a claim: “Exactly how did you manage to set fire to your glasses, Sir? Are you having me on, Sir?”
“Certainly not, Tracey, my glasses caught fire in The Bleeding Heart Bistro.”
“Sir, there’s no need for that kind of language. We’ve never had a claim for someone’s glasses catching fire before,” she said.” “It’s a first for me, too,” I said. “What are the odds of this happening?” SUNDAY MORNING 4.35 AM I was heading to the bathroom at 4.35 in the morning when I saw I’d had three missed calls in the last five minutes .
Who calls then? Three times? It can’t be good news.
I’ve got a 94-year-old mother and a 21-year-old daughter. Dark thoughts flashed through my mind. “Who are you?” I texted. “Sir, it’s the police,” came the reply. “We’ve found your motorbike.”
“My motorbike? It was stolen two months ago! Why are you calling to tell me this at 4.35 in the morning? It’s not life or death!” “I just thought you’d like to know, Sir.” “I got paid by the insurance company seven weeks ago! Keep it!” I texted.
The next text read, “Sir, it’s your friend Jason Simon’s son here — Grant. I just thought you’d like to know.”
I’d been woken up at four in the morning by a Jewish cop.
What are the odds of this happening? SUNDAY 3.30 PM I went to see a matinee with my daughter. I thought we were going to see a comedy. I was wrong: it was
The auditorium was regularly thrown into pitch black with loud explosions and flashing lights. To cheer us up, the finale was a torture scene involving extreme violence, pliers and lots of blood. Trump would have loved it.
I’d been tortured enough and at the end I jumped up to go. I noticed that the empty seat in front of me actually wasn’t empty but was occupied by a small person sitting upright wearing a red waistcoat and a polka dot bow tie. It was a dog — a tiny dachshund. “Is he with you?” I said to the grey- haired, well-dressed woman in the next seat. “Yes,” she said. “I’ve never seen a dog in the theatre before. I didn’t know dogs were allowed in the theatre,” I said. “How did he like the show? Is he a regular theatregoer?” “He’s my therapy dog,” she said. “Your what?” “He calms me,” she said. “He calms YOU? Who calms him? The poor fellow has just had to sit through two hours of more explosions and flashing lights than on fireworks night — and nobody takes a dog to Guy Fawkes night.”
The dog just sat there: he didn’t say a word.
What are the odds of this happening? SUNDAY7PM After the show, I went to a restaurant in Soho. I chatted to a charming couple at the next table. I went outside to get my copy of the frommy scooter parked outside. The bouncer blocked my way back in.
“Excuse me… but I’m having dinner here, I just came out to get my paper.” “Treat me with respect ,” he said. What!?
I tried to go back in but he blocked me.
He was rather a tiny bouncer, as bouncers go.
“This is crazy,” I said and tried to swerve past. That’s when he pushed me in the chest.
“OK. That’s it. You’ve just assaulted me. You can’t do that! I’m a customer!”
“There’s another door,” said an American woman watching this in the queue that had built up. I feinted to my left before he could grab me and made it back to my table. The final score: The bouncer was bounced from the door and I got a complimentary dinner.
What are the odds of this happening?