It’s been a while. I’ve done my Bookwitching for eight years, eight months and eight days. I like numbers like that. And yes, I’m rather sad to be sitting here working stuff like this out.
This is obviously nowhere near as ‘numbery’ as the day I found myself working in post office number seven on the seventh of July 1977. That was a busy day, with ‘everyone’ wanting anything and everything stamped, and beautifully stamped at that. There’s nothing which makes for a steadier hand than having just one chance at getting the postmark right when a philatelist stands over you with some special stamps they’ve saved, asking for a particular stamp put in a particular spot, just the way they like it.
Oh well, no stamps here at all. Although I suppose I could have got myself a commemorative rubber stamp and offered it round the neighbourhood.
I did seriously consider having an 888 party. I mean a real, physical party. None of this online drinking champagne while wearing your pyjamas celebration. But first I worked out I might be busy (I am, so I got that right), and I realised my kitchen wouldn’t be ready enough for the onslaught of lots of guests. Third, I thought, what onslaught?
You’d have been invited if I had.
Might think about nine nine nine. Or just make it an even ten, if I last that long.
Something a bit like this, in my – November/February – garden. I might supply blankets.