MEDIUM RARE
The 12 days of Christmas.
Twelfth Night, eve of Three Kings (Jan. 6).
The 12 apostles.
Twelve months of the year.
Twelve hours and another 12 to make it a day and a night.
Twelfth grade, the end of high school before college.
Twelve years old, the last year before a human being of either gender turns into a teenager.
My 2025 calendar has 18 pages, not 12; that’s why it cost more than the 12-leaf version.
Calendars are an art form, sort of. The art of Van Gogh, the Dutch expressionist, seems to be a popular subject for calendars, for some reason (which may also be why some of his more famous paintings have been turned into shopping bags). After Van Gogh (the Dutch pronounce it to rhyme with “cough”) come the French impressionists.
On the other hand, Philippine-made calendars are published and printed — artlessly — for the clients, suppliers, dealers, etc. of banks and commercial entities, so they are designed not for art’s sake but as ads, ah, so!, to hang on the wall. They are useful only if the squares for the dates are big enough for penciling in a reminder.
The 2024 calendar looks just like any calendar except that February of recent memory had 29 days, thus a leap year when traditionally girls could “leap” at and conquer the guy of their dreams; not that we heard of many or any successful attempts.
Going by the Chinese zodiac, if 2024 is the Year of the Dragon, 2025 will be the Year of the Serpent, a sign of luxury rather than betrayal. On second thought, government officials and politicians specially those seeking election or reelection should be wary of back stabbings, 2025 being an election year. The naturally suspicious and politically astute would say that anyway, such stuff happens anytime, any year.
There’s a belief held among the Cantonese that calendars, like clocks and watches, ought not to be given as gifts because they tell time, which is to say, the gift is telling the recipient, “Your time is up.”
As for the phrase “twelfth of never,” have you heard it used except as part of an old song?
Today’s songwriters don’t use such language anymore; said the raven, nevermore.