11.11

So often the time as I close my eyes at night. So often the time when I first think about lunch, at work. So often the time when something significant happens. My partner knows what time it is, when he hears my laugh proceeding my reply, it is 11.11, so often surprising me.

I try to remember how I feel, at exactly that moment. So often it is serene. Gazing through car windows marvelling at the beautiful sky and clouds and glare, you, so often, only get leaving the city, heading north. Snuggling my head gently on my pillow in my favourite of all places to be, bed. Lazy Saturday brunch in Smith Street, at my favourite cafe; long Mac, Stuyvesant Soft-pack, warm sun, newspapers full of feature stories. Rolling in the park with my Rottweiler, a fur pillow under the elms, a gentle breeze, unconditional love. Driving my Alfa, fast, along The Great Ocean Road.

So often the time when a stranger asks me randomly... and then asks me for a dollar

I have an old clock that stopped working years ago, on my mantel piece. I set its hands to 11.11, naturally. It took the physical representation of the manifestation of 11.11, that old clock face, to bring someone to me, who told me it was alright. I'm not the only one who is this way.

Some one had moved the hands, unbeknownst to me. I hadn't noticed the change. An acquaintance who, on her second visit, noticed the change, bought it up. She asked me directly, if I was the one who'd set the clock to 11.11. I am not the only person who lives in my house. I don't know why, she just instinctively knew.

Fancy, I thought. I thought that was just my quirk. I never really spoke about it, other than in the intimacy of close relationships.