Seven years can stand for many things - a wedding anniversary, or a child's age, years spent in high school and college, or the time you've worked with an employer or been in business for yourself. Or been a member of a club or team. Long list of possibles.
Well, today marks exactly seven years since I bought the hundred year old stone house that I now live in, on its wooded acre lot, here in a small country town on South Australia's Yorke Peninsula. It was in a pretty run-down state and, after the low-rent tenant moved on (his lease was due to end) I spent a couple of seasons fixing things up; main big-ticket items were salt-damp treatment throughout and a gleaming new bathroom. At one time I'd envisaged retiring - again - this time to Tasmania. But no, too cold over there, I finally realised. Great for holiday trips.
Truth is, I have become very attached both to the house and the district. It'll do me. Once a month I hop over to the state capital city, trying to remember what traffic lights and parking meters look like, and then am darned glad to come back to the rural delights of barley-growing country - not that I grow any of the stuff. But they make beer from it, don't they? That's good enough recommendation for me.
It was Saint Andrew's Day, November 30th, back in 2002 when I actually took up residence myself in this old place, so I will celebrate another anniversary in two month's time, for that.