If it were in a novel, it would seem far fetched.

I found out today where socks go. Sometimes even in pairs. It was raining, so, for my walk up the road to the local café, I grabbed my waterproof coat. With its flaps and toggles, and Velcro to cover the whole front zip with a waterproof baffle, this thing would be overkill on Everest. I opened the door and was about to put my arm in the coat sleeve, but it was absolutely pouring down and my super-absorbent suede shoes weren't going to cut it. But I was on a coffee mission- that was non-negotiable; I needed to get my target heart rate for the day. So, another day older, and hopefully another day wiser, I went back to the bedroom to change my shoes. I chucked the coat on the bed, sat down and set about the whole unlacing and lacing palaver. Done. Coat on. Take two.

Head bowed against the rain, I walked up the road, and, just as I turned the corner to the shops, I patted my pockets to make sure I had a pen and paper. And something caught my eye. My heart missed a beat. It must have happened, when I threw the coat on the bed. From the very bottom of my jacket's Velcro zip-flap, a new, grey sock with a big, bright red toe section was dangling vertically, and very unsubtly, at crotch height, right between my legs. I ripped the sock off and stuffed it in my pocket. And looked around. No one had seen. Phew.

I had my coffee. And on the way home, I retraced my steps. And outside my next door neighbour’s there was the other sock. So that’s what happens to them.

An elephant about to drench me, which is exactly what this story isn't about.

Not that I don't get pissed off with other road abusers (you've never got a .45 and a shovel when you need one), but I'm truly glad to have escaped all those years spent cycling into hailstones, waiting for buses on windswept rainy nights, being sardined into London Underground tubes against people, who really needed to know the truth about short falls in their hygiene regimen, and hitch hiking at night in the middle of nowhere (and being arrested for suspected terrorism as a result, but that's a different story). My wife and I fully realise how very fortunate we are to have a car each with our ipods linked to the stereos; it's disgusting really. But then, as Sonny Barger said (the guy credited with starting the Hell's Angels) 'if it's got tits or wheels, you're going to have trouble with it'.

Just before Christmas, both cars were running a as rough as a badger’s arse, and needed a good servicing. So I put one in, just for a minor service; the diagnosis was that it also needed a new catalytic converter, which may have explained why shop windows rattled as I drove by and birds were falling choking from the trees in my wake. And it was going to be costly, because it was a foreign car. “Okay” I said, “you must do what you must do.” But I wasn’t carless; if I gave my wife a lift to and from work, I could have her car, a zippy VW Golf, to drive around in. Excellent. I’d just been talking to a friend about cars – and the fact that I’d been in 6 car and motorbike crashes (none of which were my fault - only two of which big ones, and one of which physically rearranged me) And that I'd been in 6 cars when the clutch had gone. No one I know, other than drag racers, have this record. You see, is it just me or what. I left my friend and drove home.

Yep, you’re way ahead of me; I put the clutch in and nearly put my foot through the bulkhead, as something under the bonnet went bang. I was in second gear, so I accelerated, barely passing the road works with the walkie talkie traffic man flipping the handheld ‘slow’ sign to ‘stop’. I came to the roundabout at the bottom of my hill and, thankfully, with no cars to wait for, I just drove up the hill, parked with a bit of a lurching chug outside my house and stepped out into the afternoon sunshine. Fortunately, it happened to me where it did when it did. It could just as easily happened to my wife in rush hour traffic in the pouring rain in the middle of the city. And the last time I had car bother, it was the accelerator cable in a different car, which snapped outside my house at the top of a ridiculously steep hill, in a different city. So the gods must be smiling on me; even though they do seem to have a rather sarcastic sense of humour. So does this stuff happen to other people, or is it just me?

Careful your dogma doesn’t get run over by your karma.

This is from a friend’s classic car collection. He’s also got a Triumph, around which this story revolves, but, well, this is prettier, and I haven't got a photo of the Triumph.

The friend, my flatmate’s brother, came to lose some IQ points with us for New Year’s Eve. And we did him proud. By lunch time on New Year’s Day, the three of us had pooled enough decision-making ability to decide to go for a drive. We’d take our guest’s Triumph, which he’d mistakenly parked, in someone else’s designated car space underneath our apartment block.

As we were pulling out of the car space, our guest remarked that his car felt a bit odd. He was a seasoned truck driver and pretty switched on about mechanical things, but we still mocked him for his oversensitivity and it was probably just last night’s celebrations causing his shakes; so shut up and drive.

Not two minutes later, out on the highway, we had a real Keystone Cops moment. Fingers pointing, laughing, we all stared out of the passenger side window as our car was overtaken, or rather undertaken, by a lone, high-speed car wheel. We looked around for the car, to which the rogue wheel belonged, as it might be heading for us. But we needn’t have worried; there weren’t any other cars around. The trusty Triumph, however, promptly tilted, slammed us back into our seats, and, sparks flying, veered sharply towards the pavement. ‘Oh dear’, we didn’t say.

The wheel had been our rear, passenger-side wheel. And it wasn’t an accident. It appeared that every nut on every wheel had been loosened. Happy Frigging New Year. Now, I would have thought the first line of communication from the car space owner would’ve been a polite notice on the windscreen requesting the visitor not park in that car space. Call me picky, but for a ‘first offence’, trying to kill the offender, and any passengers, seems a tad over-reactive.

We consulted the cops. And they said, and don’t ask me on which page of the police manual you’ll find this, “we tend to find, what goes around comes around.” Which is certainly open to interpretation.

And our mechanically minded friend did indeed interpret the officer’s sage advice; revenge was served not only cold, but with a complimentary side-salad, dessert, cheese, biscuits, coffee and a mint. He opted for a solution, which was both inventive and educational; it seems atomized brake fluid and car paint don’t make happy bedfellows. But the owner didn’t bloody die of it. He did, however, leave the apartments the next day. So, does this happen to other people, or is it just me?

I certainly hope I never come across the bullet with my name on.

Yes, that's a tree, and it's growing through a Cambodian temple; 'Ta Prohm', if you care, (where they shot Tomb Raider). It's far more interesting than, and yet, strangely in about the same state as, a lot of the houses I looked at in Sydney. I’d just lost my job, so I thought ‘let’s buy a house’ - logic never was my strong suit. I spent weekend after weekend, walking through tiny hovels, pulling my face, appalled. But the kicker was, the Sydney property market is a bun fight, and I could barely afford these dumps anyway. After finally finding something potentially livable, I went to a few auctions. But the bidding was already beyond my pocket, before I got my hand out of the pocket and into the air.

Meanwhile, I was making a short film, and I needed a particular prop; a cardboard pet box for taking rabbits etc home from the pet store in. But as soon as I started looking for one, apparently, stocks worldwide dried up. There wasn’t one to be had anywhere. Bollocks.

Another Saturday came, and off I went, with herds of taxpayers, traipsing around tiny, inner city shitholes. I saw one particularly offensive house – instead of air freshener or even incense, these gimps had elected to use oil of cloves. It was a good house, but it needed two things to be attended to; all the vertical surfaces and all the horizontal ones. Anyway, I held my breath and got out into the back yard, which was its own special nightmare. I turned to have a look at the guttering (such a rich and spontaneous life I lead). And there, on a shelf, was a pet box exactly like the one I’d been looking for. I picked it up to show my girlfriend. And her eyes widened. There, on the pet box, clearly written in big, black letters was my surname. And it’s not a common name. Weird. We laughed, but we didn’t go to the auction. Instead, we’d already arranged to hire a motorbike and go away for the weekend, so we asked friends, who lived in the same road as the house, if they’d bid on our behalf. We arrived at our destination, and the mobile phone rang. We’d got the house. And for the exact money we could afford. Now there were just some picky details to attend to - like getting a job. So, does this happen to other people? Or is it just me?

“Well, it might be nice if you, at least, asked.”

This is my dog. She’s a big, old an Alaskan Malamute; like a Husky on steroids. They're beautiful animals, just not big on taking orders. They understand alright, they just have their own opinions. If a Malamute doesn’t want to do something, and males can be up to 90kg (14 stone or 200 pounds), then it’s probably not going to happen. Before you try training a Malamute, perhaps practice with something easy, like parting a body of water.

I got my dog after she’d been used for breeding. Now she gets cuddles aplenty (except when she’s out in public on duty, because it embarrasses her) and we go to the park every day, where there are all of types of dogs, and owners; everything from Pugs to Great Danes, and from barristers to baristas; everyone is equally muddy-paw marked and dog-globbed.

On walks, my job is to bag and bin whatever she produces, which, from her expressions, sends her some mixed messages about who’s the dominant one. And I carry Her Hairyness’ lead, while she unenthusiastically lopes along like a bear, head down, sniffing posts and signing the ‘dog book’. If I ever threw a ball for her, she’d just throw me a look, as if to say, “Very clever, Mr Opposable Thumb. Your ball’s over there now.“ I’m only lucky she can’t ‘tut’.

But the other day, we were entering the park, and, in the distance, I saw the dog group. So, in an avuncular, motivational gesture, and still focused on the group, I swung my left arm back to give her a chivvy along, with a little ‘go and see your pals’ pat on the furry backside. Well, apparently, mere nanoseconds after me, she too saw the group, and she picked up her pace, head and, alas, her big, fluffy tail. My open hand swung forward, but she was now a step ahead with her tail curled proudly over her back. And on the upward swing, my middle finger disappeared straight up her sphincter. Momentarily, she took off, bunny-hopping away, but then the tail dropped like a trap-door, and she stopped. Ears pricked, she turned and glared at me. Of course, I was shocked and horrified at my inexplicable accuracy; Lee Harvey Oswald couldn’t have hit that one. But judging by the dog’s expression, apparently I didn’t look shocked enough. She’s pretty adept at the withering stare, and she didn’t even need to be able to say, “What the…? Either I’m going mad in my old age, or you just crossed a very wide line in the relationship there, sunshine.”
We’ve never mentioned it since, though she does seem to walk behind me more often now. So, does this happen to other people? Or is it just me?

Isn’t acupuncture supposed to relieve stress.

A few years ago, I broke my leg on, or rather off, a motorbike. And after 4 operations, my leg has grown back, longer. Apparently, this just never happens. Welcome to my world. So now the ‘normal’ leg is shorter, and my back is dodgier. As a 6’ 1” blokewith shoe lifts – people must think I have some serious issues. Well, I do. With my pelvis. Over the years I’ve spent a fortune on physios, chiros, osteos, Bowen therapists, Reiki healers, chinese herbalists, podiatrists and acupuncturists. The only one I haven’t been to is a vet. Anyway, recently I heard about a laser acupuncturist, and I’m up for anything that will relieve the pain (people seem to frown, or avoid eye contact if I carry a bottle of red wine in my pocket). But the acupunturist decided traditional needle therapy would be better for me. Fine. She pricked me full from head to toe with 30 needles and left me face down in my undies for 20 minutes, for the voodoo magic to work. Half an hour later, I was getting a bit bored. After another half an hour of breathing warm pillow, I was trying my best to relax into it, but, a bit miffed, I did start timing the session. And after another thirty minutes, that’s an hour and a half, I was monumentally pissed off with it all. But try as I may, I couldn’t get anyone’s attention, and thanks to the frigging needles from my neck to my feet, I couldn’t get anyone's attention, move, knock on the wall, or get to my phone. Bollocks. Now what do I do? I couldn't just lie there all day. So I started by pulling out the needles. From my hands first. That went well, so, rather gingerly, I went for my neck. No gushing blood, so I brailled down my shoulders, back, bum, legs and feet, and, one by one, I pulled them all out. Dressed, I took my needlework collection in a kidney dish into reception.
“What’s wrong with this picture?”
“We thought you’d gone ages ago.”
“No, I’ve been lying next door like a catatonic, balding porcupine, waiting for my birthday.”
I wish I'd said that, but I just shook my head, which was pleasantly loose on my neck actually.
The receptionist called the doctor, who was most apologetic and gave me the 20 minute session (or rather all four and half of them) for half price. Good job they weren’t taking blood – though I don’t do that anymore since they royally cocked it up and made an egg-sized purple bulge, I never thought possible, in two of my blood vessels. So, on the positive side, the longer the needles are in, the more effective they are supposed to be – for one's physical well-being if not for one's emotional health. And no, I’m not going back. Not until the doctor prescribes herself something to improve her bleeding memory. So does this happen to other people? Or is it just me?