I’m not a superstitious person. I walk under ladders and on the cracks in pavements. I don’t knock on wood, I don’t throw salt over my shoulder and I can never remember whether black cats are good or bad luck.
About the only superstition I follow is one my mother told me when I was a child: that if you eat a mince pie on each of the twelve days of Christmas you’ll have good luck for the following year. I only follow that superstition because I like mince pies and I’ve been pretty conscientious about maintaining it for that reason. In fact, I think the only time I’ve ever not eaten 12 mince pies over the Christmas season was last year, when I had the flu and I didn’t really feel like eating anything.
You may be pleased to know I made damn sure that I ate 12 mince pies this year.
You’re welcome.
The First Number Not Nameable in Under Ten Words 