I HAVE become a bit superstitious.

When I was 15, I spent several weeks in America. During our stay we went to an Amish village in Ohio - the name of which escapes me (I was a teenager and more absorbed in the fact that my Very Naughty Cousins, whom I was staying with, had told their friends that they would be away and gave them a key to let themselves in and have a party.) Fortunately, we were in the sacred Amish village when the police rang and, from memory, my cousins hid in a church to escape the wrath of their parents.

Meanwhile my brother and I were inside some sort of shack-type shop, desperate to spend our dollars. I came home with a faceless Amish doll, which looks like the lovechild of Holly Hobbie and one of Harry Potter’s Dementors, while my brother came home with a pencil.

I kept Holly D all these years, in memory of our peculiar trip to another world. Twenty or so years later, my brother came to stay with the Teen and me a few months ago, to leave us to care for his beloved bulldog Marshmallow, while he went on holiday.

When he came to pick her up ten days later, he told us that he had taken something from my spare room and we could have it back if I could tell him what it was.

I couldn’t guess what it was, so when he was safely home in London, he told me. I was LIVID. He had stolen my beloved doll.

The following day I received a photograph of my doll complete with googly eyes that he had stuck on. I was even more LIVID and demanded it back, blind.

Now, this was three months ago and on Wednesday, my doll was handed back. Since then I have had a run of bad luck and intolerable stress.

I sent my brother a message: “I think the Amish doll is cursed.”

He wrote: “Oh no! I think you might be right though.”

Hmmm. He has revealed nothing more.

As for said doll, it is having a little holiday in my friend’s spare bedroom.

If my life improves this week, it can stay there.

My friend said: “If I get bad luck this week, it will end up in an incinerator.”

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