As this site is Flip Flop Flying with a G, not Flip Flop Flyin’ with an apostrophe, today I’d like to pause for a moment and lament the seeming extinction of the apostrophe in the word Hallowe’en.
I always enjoyed the way it hung there between the two Es. I liked how it added a nice gothic sense of horror to the word that such an event could only benefit from. The apostrophe shielding us from the horrors within, but also amplifying our fears.
But it seems it’s dying out. It’s all Halloween nowadays… when I were a lad it were all fields of apostrophes, not just rampaging gangs of teenagers in Scream masks acting out their mini-protection racket fantasies: give us sweets or we fuck up your house!
It’s only just gone midday in Berlin and already the spooks are working. As I left the flat to go and get my morning coffee – all crusty-eyed, askew-haired, and yesterday’s clothes-ed – I shut the door of the flat as one tends to do when leaving one’s home. The front door is a bit stiff and has to be slammed, but usually that’s no problem at all.
This morning though, I slammed the door and heard a crashing noise. I dismissed it, thinking it was a neighbour dropping something in their kitchen, and went and got my coffee, came home, read some websites, went about my day. Time passed and then, Ooh, I need the loo, I thought. So I went to the bathroom to find the mirror had fallen off its ledge over the sink and was broken.
The slamming of the door had created a vibration that worked it’s way along the hall, past the little chamber of shoes and coats, into the bathroom, and thunk! ruined my morning. Seven years! Seven years! Aaargh!
So, I begin sweeping the broken shards off the floor, cursing my bad luck, but taking things in my stride. Then I take the remaining hulk of broken mirror out of the sink. Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. Fuck. Shit. Fuck. Bollocks. Fuck. The mirror has made a four-way lightning-shaped crack in the sink. And there’s a hole big enough to put a pencil through.
I peer through it at the floor tiles and let out a sigh. The seven years of bad luck began a second or so after the mirror broke. Now I really will catch bird flu. Then I’ll get hit by a tram on my way to the hospital. And the ambulance that picks me up will have engine trouble and explode. But I’ll be rescued by firemen and taken to the burns unit, where I’ll be treated and have my broken bones put it casts and my bird flu will be sorted by the ace doctors, and all will seem good until a comet lands directly on top of the hospital and kills everyone, (and I’ll die thinking something dumb like, Oooh, I really fancy some Walkers salt and vinegar crisps), and a chain reaction will set off a new ice age and life on Earth as we know it will end. All because I slammed a door. Sorry about that.