Almost time to change to new calendars everywhere. In my case that’s in one spot only, these days. All I had to do was remember to order my favourite one in time. (And to post my spare calendar to Wales, where there was a shortage, matching the surplus here.)
At least there is no longer any need for making our own. It was fun, but it was a chore that happened right when we didn’t exactly require more things to do. But I sort of miss my slimline author calendars, which were much more meaningful than puppies ever would have been. (Apologies to all puppies.) Or tulips.
I rediscovered my slimline authors a while back. They were all hiding out in the filing cabinet, hoping I’d find a use for them again. And I have. They now sit next to me to be turned into shopping lists. (I’m sure it beats having a hole punched into your head.)
There was always a reassuring feeling in having the people who write my favourite books share my room, telling me what date it was. Sometimes I think I’d like to resurrect this tradition, and no longer being afflicted by any narrow walls, it’d be possible to give them lots of space.
Now all that remains is to tear out the 2017 page from the almost obsolete 2016 calendar, on which I mark everything in such a way that I can see how the year will work out. It’s my makeshift version of Favourite Aunt’s cowberry calendar, which used to sit on her kitchen wall.