I’ve had a “thing” about the number 3 for as long as I can remember. It’s not an obsessive compulsion, I don’t think—when I lived in London, I used to ride the 73 bus every day; I wouldn’t turn down a drink at the Three Wheatsheafs—but I try to avoid multiples of three. Some examples of my mania: I never set my alarm clock for a time that is divisible by three; I never take three items of food (don’t be offering me three cookies), but I’m not crazy enough that I wouldn’t eat a meal that had three different food items on it (I don’t insist on meat and one veg), nor do I count the food after it’s on the plate (so no green bean roll call). Also, I don't insist on a change if a hotel puts me in Room 303, and weirdly enough I always seem to be put in "3" rooms.
Still, it is a bit peculiar, and more peculiar still is that I have no idea why I do this. Today’s Guardian
—the paper from 03/03/03, that is—offers