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By pure coincidence:
We are moving into a new house we are buiding at number 7. The house we're in now is number 8. The house we were in previously was number 7.
My RAV4's number is 987, add up each number and you get 24 (my birthday). Part of my fax number is 798. If you add up the numbers of the other half, you get 9, which is also the month I was born.
Our shop in London is number 90 (9 zero = 9).
Our houses in London are or have been, in descending order: 38, 28 and 78. Add up all the numbers and you get 144. Add up those numbers and you get... 9. Even when you add 90 to 144 and add up the numbers 234, you get 9.
If you multiply 3x8 = 24 (2+4=6) 2x8 = 16 (1+6=7) 7x8 = 56 (5+6=11) If you add up the bracketed totals 6+7+11= 24.
If you add 3+8= 11, 2+8= 10 , 7+8= 15. (11+10+15= 36, 3+6)= 9.
I married Yiani on 3 18 1972. If I multiply 3x18x1972= 106488. If I add up those numbers I get 27 (2+7)= 9.
My Golf's number is 38 (3+8=11). My Porche's (registration) number was 911 (9+1+1=11).
Yiani was born 4 1 1951 (4x1x1951= 7804) If you multiply 7x8x4= 224 (2+2+4)= 8.
It's evident that some numbers keep cropping up over and over in my life, notably; 9,8,7,11,6,2,3,4 and 1. Don't know what it means yet. This is an ongoing investigation.
The hours in these days are taken up by thoughts and actions regarding number 7. The new house at number 7 Egnatias that is.
It's at that concrete and roof stage, you can see what it is, but it's not quite a house yet and far from being a home.
We are currently agonizing over which marble to put on the floor. And how to merge the marble and granite from one area into the other in an organic inoffensive way.
This week we chose the marble windowsills and final measurements were taken today.
The plasterboard guy is putting up his metalwork so I had to design the alcove area outside the guest toilet. Just remembered, I'd better design the vocal cubicle in my studio as well!
We have to finalise window designs, stonework, A/c and fireplace by next week; everything shuts down in August!
I always say, go by your instincts, listen to your gut-reaction logic and don't ever trust your wife to make a major safety decision! I always say that.
I just created this blog (what a name!)wondering what the hell I was going to put on it, when I happened to glance at my leg and see the recent bloody claw marks all over it.
You must understand that my wife is the kind of person that see's nothing wrong with stepping off the edge of a hill that was so steep it could be classified as a cliff. And who got pissed because I had the audacity to pull her back before she hurtled to her untimely death, as she undoubtedly would have done had I not grabbed her!
She is also the kind of person that thinks that just because she loves all animals (except rats) that they all should love her back. That, as long as she doesn't show any fright when confronted by a whelping cat baring its fangs and hissing at her, then she can safely walk by it with her Yorkshire Terrier in tow on a long leash and Not expect to get attacked.
Unlike me, who had the precence of mind to immediately stand back, pull back the 2 Yorkies I was in control of and warn her about the cat as soon as I saw it ahead of us.
"Pfff", she piffed, meaning, 'Honestly! You're such a coward!'And walked on, past me.
There was only a small gap between her and the cat that she could have walked through, but she went ahead anyway.
This is where I should have trusted my instincts, asserted my authority and ordered her to return to safety immediately. But even if I'd had, she wouldn't have listened... just would have told me not to shout and to stop making a scene. That's right. After 30 years together, I know what she's like.
So she walks onwards like a soldier and I... I follow (FUCK! WHY?) I follow and the cat is eyeing up her dog, then it see's my two and it's creeping up on us, her, whatever... the shit happened so quickly!
The cat swipes Trixie, I go closer to scare it and it jumps on Bella, gets her in a (cat?) hug. I tear it off her and suddenly the friggin' cat's got its claws
in my legs... I slap it off and it attacks the dogs again, fucking crazy cat! My wife's got the walking stick and she's trying to stroke the fucking cat with it as it's clobbering one of our dogs. I shout at her to give me the bloody stick. Sod that! I wrench it away from her and whack the fucking cat in the face with a reasonable prejudice! Cat backs away and we're able to escape.
Was I angry? Was I ever fucking angry? Yes! I was fucking frigging angry for fuck's sake! At myself! For not heeding my own advice and for following the walking death-hazard like some blissed out sheep.
I feel better now... the scars will heal, the dogs will heal and soon I'll forget about it. Until, my lovely wife takes me on another adventure in her fear factor domain.
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