I regularly order a (terrible, really) breakfast at the funky little Cuban socialist cafe in my neighbourhood. An “old-fashioned breakfast” (home-fries, bacon, eggs, and toast) and a large mug of coffee comes to $6.66.
The last time I ordered it, the potatoes were moldy. I ought to have known.
A far more striking numerical coincidence happened last week. I was printing (by hand! How 14[sup]th[/sup] Century!) labels for the racks for the entire line of fall fashions for the company I work for.
After I had finished printing the product code for a particularly skimpy little item, and was trying to recall the colour code, I stopped for a bit, massaged my wrist, and tried to figure out what looked so darned familiar about the number I had just written out. It took a few seconds, and I had the double check the tag on the sample I was copying from to make sure I hadn’t shifted into autopilot for a moment. The first seven digits of the code were exactly the same as my cellphone number (minus the area code.)