I’ve always liked that my birthday is in May, but this year I was dreading it
Bad news, Arieans and Taureans, or – as they are known by people who don’t believe in fairytales – people with birthdays between March and May. You have just had your second crap birthday in a row. No doubt the planets foretold it all. Now that I have declared myself the Guardian’s first astrologist, I must add that all Pisceans should avoid buying a dishwasher this week and Scorpios must stay away from anyone in a Moncler jacket. (That latter one is not in the stars, it’s just a good general rule for avoiding people with too much money and no taste.)
So it was my birthday the other week. I always liked that my birthday is in May, because it really is the perfect party month: late spring, so warm, but not – crucially – summer, so people generally aren’t on holiday. Also, I share my day with some genuinely interesting people: L Frank Baum! Madeleine Albright! Andy Murray! This might not say anything important about me, but it definitely doesn’t say anything bad, so I’ll take it. Clever me for being born on such a great day! At this point, you should be picturing Leonardo DiCaprio at the beginning of Titanic, clutching his ticket and shouting: “We’re the luckiest sons of bitches in the world!” Except it’s me instead of Leo, my birthday instead of a ticket, and the coronavirus instead of the Titanic.
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