I regularly read the horoscopes in the London Paper. I know. Aren’t I a fool ? They’re just bollocks aren’t they? Why do you want to go and read them ?
Like the crossword (or if I’m really pushed, the sudoku) the horoscopes are a bit of a ritual for me. During the summer they adequately summed up my days with scary levels of accuracy. There was a strange moment of reassurance to be experienced moments before the train pulled out of White City tube. You wouldn’t think there’d be pleasure derived from reading a summary of a bad day, but there was. I’m still not entirely certain why that would be the case.
Friday’s publication was a bit of a corker. It seemed to provide a serious heads up of how things might turn out this weekend what with that Eurovision stuff going on.
Naturally, I was thinking it was going to be someone else winning the crown and not Jade, hence why I thought the horoscope would be a useful piece of advice to hang on to.
What I hadn’t expected was to end up ranking individuality over popularity when I realised that not many other people could necessarily give as big a shit about it as I do.
Do I care? No. Not in any way. Statistics mean nothing. What’s important is that deep-seated sense of smug self-satisfaction guaranteed when immersing yourself in a subject (or subjects) you know only too well only appeals to one member of the audience. Oneself.
I choose individuality every time. It guarantees happiness.