Lucky 99

This post number ninety-nine, a mighty landmark in the history of the Quirky Muffin. This modest webpage didn't exist a few months ago and it has now achieved the magic ninety-nine. It's amazing. Who cares about one hundred when ninety-nine is so wonderful. There was never a character on 'Get Smart' called Agent 100, was there? No, only the awesome Barbara Feldon as Agent 99. Oh, 'Get Smart', for all your stupidities you were also clever in unexpected ways, and you had Feldon to hold it all together in her pixie-like way. I could do a whole piece on 'Get Smart' but won't as I've only seen two seasons out of five and it wouldn't be fair. So far it seems to be a bizarre mix of drop dead turkeys and inspired successes with no middle ground.

Ninety nine posts, who would have thought it? That doesn't even count the first incarnation of this blog, now long gone, or my old Multiply page which I've let lapse into the mists of time. Would you believe that there are still things to write about? The long dark days of winter are wearing out and creativity is coming back to the fore.

'Lucky 99' seems like it should be a perfect story title of some kind. There should be something really nice to dig out of that number. It has a prime factorisation of 3*3*11 which in itself is excellent but somehow not inspiring. It's much nice than 100 = 2*2*5*5 though.

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'Lucky 99'


Slappy threw paint over his canvas, growled in frustration and finally threw it across the room. His talent was elsewhere and it bothered him. He felt that his one hundredth picture was burning to escape if he could but find his way to the image within, but the way was blocked. Not even his muse Elise had been able to help. They had spent hours chatting over the last few days, hours spent in the park strolling and skating, hours or her being sprawled in the highly contested old armchair in front of the window and hours in the middle of the night when profound things seem simple and simple things seem inexplicable and unapproachably distant.

"Unapproachably distant." The words struck a chord.

Much as anyone would, Slappy Paxton had become fixated on the number one hundred. The milestone loomed and loomed more in his mind until it seemed as if nothing would be worthy of it. Slappy had finished many more than a hundred pictures in reality but only a fraction of those could he call 'good' and add to those he put in his catalogue.

Slipping into a pensive frame he slowly realised the truth; that one hundred was unapproachable distant. Why? Because it was a number and not a picture. The two had nothing to do with one another. With that he put his paints away and plucked the less favoured pencils from a window seat. Sharp geometry in blues and yellows spread from one corner to another to another and finally to the point where only the corner of his large sketch pad remained free of pattern. For a few moments more that blank space remained as it was but then reds, oranges and greens scrawled and swirled in ordered chaos before being done. More than done really, for in fact he was pleased with what was a wholly unusual piece for him.

Reflecting he realised he had been silly. The hundredth wouldn't be any harder than this, not would the hundredth and first. Surely there would be problems but then there always would be. The block was over, numbers were meaningless, and for these revelations he thanked the picture, his lucky ninety-ninth.

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Numbers are meaningless. Take that, Maths gods!

O.