I have been called to account for failing in The Inn's self-appointed task of alerting all and sundry to the approach of Friday the 13th. (Well, with the demise of Pogo someone had to.) And this month Friday the 13th fell particularly inauspiciously on a Friday. That was 4 days ago and your servant failed in his mission. No mention in The Inn. Even Homer nods and your servant isn't even Helen Steiner Rice.
So apparently if you inadvertently walked under a black cat or broke a ladder or something and are now experiencing the requisite 7 years of bad luck, it's my fault. I do apologize.
Looking on the bright side, though, you've only got 6 years, 11 months, and 13(!) days of bad luck left.
(I shall try to more vigilant in the future, Richard.)