Istarted counting magpies during my brief, doomed time as a history teacher. Trudging in every morning, the grim prospect of Weimar Germany with the Year 11s ahead, I began to take note of the number I spotted. If, on first sight, I spied only one, I knew I would have a terrible day. If I saw two, it would be lovely. If I spotted one, saluted furiously, said ‘Hello Captain’, told him the date, and then saw two, I might be all right.

I’m not usually superstitious (I’m pessimistic enough to assume that everything usually turns out for the worst), so I’m not sure where this habit came from. Unfortunately, it is very hard to shift. Crossing St James’s Park each morning to reach the Spectator office means navigating a minefield of awkward salutes and mumbled hellos.

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Ross Cla

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