The prompt was X is for all sorts of things, including words containing X. I chose the word ‘jinx’.
Living Under a Romany Blessing
‘Ye’re not scared of buying from a Romany are ye?’ said the old woman at the door one November night.
‘Of course not,’ I said. My granny was born to travelling horse-dealers so no, I wasn’t scared.
‘Blessings be upon ye,’ she said.
She was seventy-five if she was a day; a lot younger than my dear departed granny would have been by then but out of the same basic mould. Wrinkled, weather-beaten, solid. A woman unafraid to threaten grown men with the business end of a full-size leg of pork.
She wore an overcoat under which I imagined was a cardigan, a proper apron with a back and an overlapping front, a warm skirt, jumper, underskirt, whalebone corsets, bloomers and thick lisle stockings. A headscarf and well-worn sensible shoes completed the outfit.
On her arm was a wicker basket, holding crocheted doilies and tray cloths which which I knew I’d never use; I had some upstairs which my mum made and I was too sentimental to get rid of them. I didn’t want any more.
‘Look,’ she says, ‘they’re all beautifully made. Very handy they are.’
I looked in the basket. They were pristine white, a basic pattern and no use to me at all.
I sighed heavily.
‘Blessings be upon ye,’ she said. ‘Ye have a lovely face but ye worry too much.’
Tell me something I don’t know.
As the cold wind started cutting through my own jumper, I thought: frankly if this old lass is willing to walk the streets in November door-knocking to sell doilies that nobody wants, she deserves a few quid. So I bought some doilies.
‘Blessings be upon ye.’
After receiving her good wishes:
My former writing partner died. My brother’s mother-in-law died. My uncle died. Another friend’s husband died. My friend of over fifty years shattered her ankle. Another friend injured his back and wrote off his car in an accident. My brother’s car was written off, not in the same accident. My husband spent Christmas in bed with a vicious bout of flu.
A leak in the kitchen attracted slugs every night. A leak from the attic dripped water into our wardrobe and all down the back of my husband’s suede jacket. When using the outside tap in the garden, water leaked inside the house. We had to replace the central heating pump and three leaking radiators, plus we were overrun with enough spiders to keep Sir David Attenborough busy for years.
The old lass called again the following October. Same wicker basket, same spiel.
Against all reason, I bought more doilies.
‘Thank ye my dear. Blessings be upon ye. Ye’ll have a good summer.’
Within half an hour of this benediction, my aunty died, my husband wrenched his back and I took a chunk out of my hand on the corner of the dining table.
Within a week, I turned up for a meeting on the wrong day, and an overnight stay with my sister-in-law for a little light DIY turned into a marathon four-night stay with only two pairs of pants and no kitchen sink for three days.
Within a month, one of the neighbours died. A friend of mine fell ill and her dog died. A planned family gathering for twenty-four people was halved by illness, and a water leak revealed that the bath was not actually screwed down but was, in fact, slowly walking its way across the bathroom.
My blender went up the Swannee, I developed plantar fasciitis, and new curtains had to be taken back to the shop because they made the room smell of hamsters.
I vowed that if ever I saw the old lass again I’d give her the doilies back, hand her some money and ask her to curse me. The blessings weren’t working.
© Carol Carman 2026
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