Who's afraid of Friday 13th?

Me, that's who

It’s a scapegoat of a day, Friday the 13th. “The object of irrational hostility,” that’s one of the definitions of scapegoat I get from Merriam-Webster, and it’s well fitted to the way this one combination of a weekday and a number arouses those twin beasts of hostility and fear. The day is so reviled, it has its own phobia.

If you go for a walk on Friday, December 13 and your boots have lousy traction, stay off the icy trails and opt for the deep snow.

Some call the malady friggatriskaidekaphobia, some paraskevidekatriaphobia.I call it all foolish superstition, AND ALSO I’m afraid of Friday the 13th (because many things can be true at once). My phobia dates back to an adverse childhood experience that just happened to happen on the evil date in question. As an adult, I tend to feel a little gloomy on March 13 because it’s the anniversary of my father’s death, but every Friday the 13th puts me on the frozen side of panic.

The last time we had a December with Friday the 13th in it was five years ago. I was due to start that cat sit in London but wound up spending the night locked up in Gatwick Airport.