Mercifully, I survived Friday 13th without any discernible misfortune. In fact I’d proffer with some contentment that, except from slightly overcooking the oven chips and a rare bout of writers block, GJ Strachan’s Friday 13th March was, in the inimitable words of Bertie Wooster, tinkety tonk. If truth be told, my exposure to paraskevidekatriaphobic tales…