My older sister, let’s call her Donna, was born on Friday the thirteenth of June, and today, I went to her place to go out to lunch with her nearby. I thought some Thai Chicken Bites, a nice glass of wine, it would be a nice birthday celebration for the two of us.

I stopped on the way at a garden centre, and bought each of us a bright red geranium.

So far so good.

Donna is unable to navigate stairs, and needs assistance, even with her walker. She falls quite a bit since her series of strokes.

The elevator in her building was on the fritz.

*Cue Friday the Thirteenth music*

Turns out that the place we had planned to eat lunch delivered.

Crisis averted.

So, that was the worst thing that happened, and really?

We ordered a delicious lunch, cracked open a beer each (which she had had since February) toasted one another, and ate at her table in our new clothing.

Yes! Donna and I had new outfits for the festive occasion

Notice I didn’t say birthday suits? I’m thoughtful and fabulous that way.

She was thrilled with her geranium, and we had a lovely time, although, as usual, she smoked my arse at Skip-Bo. She’s such a ruthless player that I once brought a pack to the hospital to see if I could beat her when she was sick. Crafty? Donna was. She refused to play.

We made plans to get together with Ass Burger Boy on his birthday next month at the same place we couldn’t get to today.

Friday the thirteenth? I fart in your general direction.