Next month I’m due yet another birthday.
I’ve grown fond of 72, six dozen, two cubed times three cubed and the year when I was in the wild no man’s land of being 29.
But 73? Numerically boring, even repulsive. But, you say, I’ve clearly got too much time on my hands, if I even think about such trivia.
But anyway I’m planning to milk the max from my last 21 days (3 x 7) of 72. And happily it’s thawing too, so I can commune with nature again; with creatures who understand.