IN THE history of anniversaries, today is probably one of the least momentous in the history of momentum. But this evening when I sit down to scribble the weather, for the first time in 17 years, I will have completed one whole year of writing in a diary.

HAS it been three years since they arrived first, since they sailed up the Liffey in their fast and nimble longships, the oars glinting in the autumn sun?

This is the week of Halloween night.

I’M a great believer in serendipity, using it as a perfectly adequate substitution for hard work. The word means happy accident or fortunate mistake.

IT’S the part of the internet that makes you a little sheepish. You’re filling out a form, typing in your name and address, and then the website asks for your ZIP code.

It’s getting late in the bar in Alphabet City on the Lower East Side.

I’M not proud to say this: I’m not a great voter. I mean, I vote — it’s only good manners, after everyone went to so much effort to print all the ballot papers and shake off the yoke of colonial oppression an’ all.

Arthur’s Day: Traditionally a time for handwringing about where we are as a nation. Commentators will ask: What can we do to change our preoccupation with alcohol? That battle is long lost.

THE Germans think of everything.

I’m up early this morning — fierce early. The smugness is overwhelming. That’s not a surprise — the world attaches a moral value to early-rising. The early bird catches the worm; early to bed and early to rise leads to health, wealth and wisdom. By contrast, late is only better than never.