I had a first date last night. A blind date even, or rather, a nearsighted date, since we had already exchanged emails and photographic proof of our existence and appeal.

In the 90 minutes between coming home from work and departing for the date, it is always hard to decide in which order to perform the required actions. Should ironing the blue shirt come first? Or wait, it might be better to start with shaving and go shopping after that. Perhaps I should get into my outfit first; that way I don’t have to do a rushed last-minute dress-up.

Murphy’s Law teaches that one is certain to choose the wrong order. That makes me a Murphy Felon.

Because when I nudged my plate – filled with fish, pasta, and tomato sauce – off the kitchen counter and splattered foodstuffs all over my trouser legs (a Murphy event if there ever was one), I was still wearing my work clothes and had yet to change into my good jeans and blue shirt. I guess Murphy was out to lunch last night.

Perhaps that is also why the nearsighted date went so well…