Magnificent Sevens

In amongst all the bah-humbugging about not being able to sleep last (this) night, I got to thinking about Stuff and came to the astounding (I am astounded, therefore it must be astounding) conclusion that my life has fallen into seven year eras. 'Seven year scratchings' sounds far too much like something you'd get from a very dodgy chip shop, so I resisted the urge to grab that for a title.

Anyway. By way of demonstration, here are my Magnificent Sevens. For the sake of proving myself right, I have to make the first a Magnificent Eight. (Please don't quibble about this - it just makes you look anally retentive).

0 - 8 - No idea. No memory of it and no one around who knows anything about it to tell me. So these can be The Bermuda Triangle Years.

8 - 15 - The Dickensian Years. Because they were bizarre and full of the strangest individuals imaginable.

15 - 22 - The Growing Up Years. They did what it says on the tin.

22 - 29 - The Traumatic Transition Years. Moving from one dysfunctional situation to the next, but no less interesting for that. I decided to make no references to naughtiness in the title. So maybe these should be called The Self-Deceiving Years.

29 - 36 - The Fertile Years. These were good times, and two fantastic and unbelievably wonderful children came out of them.

36 - 43 - The Endurance Test Years. And then some. No angstful handwringing for you to endure yourself, reader. Suffice it to say, they were bloody awful.

Now - Now I have a seven year opportunity ahead, it seems to me, which ends when I'm 50 and will want to regroup and make a new seven year itch plan.

So I have been thinking about what these seven years could be, and what I'd like to be able to call them when I get to the end of them. I don't know what I want the title to be, but I do know that I'd like it to be something about construction and contentment.

That is all. I love the number seven, by the way. Always have done.