I would not consider myself religious, or particularly spiritual; I don't believe in fate, or ouja boards, or those charmless mediums for whom somebody at Living keeps commissioning shows. I am, however, a feckless sucker for believing good news. A favourite joke of mine from The Simpsons is teed up by Marge telling Homer that he only hears what he wants to hear... "Thanks, I'd love an omelette right about now," he replies.
Hence, when I read in the Evening Standard horoscopes last week that Mercury's movements (or something) would bring about a life-changing event after the 20th (or sometime thereabouts), I took it as empirical evidence that I am about to get a transplant, and started planning how I will fill the cool box - the one that will live beside my hospital bed and house all the various soft drinks I plan to consume in the wake of the operation (currently topping the list is mandarin lemonade from Selfridges, should you be interested).
Armed with this prescient knowledge, for the last week I have been convinced that I can "feel" the transplant coming, just like a cow lying down in the face of rain, and have taken to reassuring myself that it won't be much longer now as I wriggle into my pyjamas instead of my pleather leggings and suck on another ice cube instead of doing vodka shots through my eye ball. I got terribly over-excited, in fact, dreaming of all the nuts I'm going to eat and all the places I'm going to visit (Newcastle, Cambodia, Little Venice) before Joanne, noted cynic that she is, reminded me that horoscopes are a pile of wank and if the only specification was that some "life changing event" was going to happen after the 20th, arguably that could mean any time in the next kerjillion years. At least I know where I stand up until the end of this week.
That's the problem with wanting something this much: you become very susceptible to anyone or anything that tells you you can have it. It's the reason people continue to play the Lottery, despite there being more chance they will die in a badger-related hit and run (the Government really must legislate on badgers' rights to hold a license, they are a menace on the road) and it's the same logic that underpins our belief in friends' opinion that our new haircut is GREAT/of course you don't look fat/no! 17 mini rolls is not too many in one sitting: we know deep down that they are lying, but the fallacy is preferable to the truth. So...ok, I know I probably won't be getting a transplant any time soon, and the astrology section of the Evening Standard is probably not the most reliable source of information. But when the reality is hard and frustrating, living in fantasy can bring a little light relief. It is often difficult to maintain faith in something that seems so remote, so unlikely, and, at times, hopeless - but such is the nature of "faith". All I can do is plod along and keep positive that one day, maybe soon, everything will change for the better...and in the meantime, I should perhaps just stick to the crossword.
Hence, when I read in the Evening Standard horoscopes last week that Mercury's movements (or something) would bring about a life-changing event after the 20th (or sometime thereabouts), I took it as empirical evidence that I am about to get a transplant, and started planning how I will fill the cool box - the one that will live beside my hospital bed and house all the various soft drinks I plan to consume in the wake of the operation (currently topping the list is mandarin lemonade from Selfridges, should you be interested).
Armed with this prescient knowledge, for the last week I have been convinced that I can "feel" the transplant coming, just like a cow lying down in the face of rain, and have taken to reassuring myself that it won't be much longer now as I wriggle into my pyjamas instead of my pleather leggings and suck on another ice cube instead of doing vodka shots through my eye ball. I got terribly over-excited, in fact, dreaming of all the nuts I'm going to eat and all the places I'm going to visit (Newcastle, Cambodia, Little Venice) before Joanne, noted cynic that she is, reminded me that horoscopes are a pile of wank and if the only specification was that some "life changing event" was going to happen after the 20th, arguably that could mean any time in the next kerjillion years. At least I know where I stand up until the end of this week.
That's the problem with wanting something this much: you become very susceptible to anyone or anything that tells you you can have it. It's the reason people continue to play the Lottery, despite there being more chance they will die in a badger-related hit and run (the Government really must legislate on badgers' rights to hold a license, they are a menace on the road) and it's the same logic that underpins our belief in friends' opinion that our new haircut is GREAT/of course you don't look fat/no! 17 mini rolls is not too many in one sitting: we know deep down that they are lying, but the fallacy is preferable to the truth. So...ok, I know I probably won't be getting a transplant any time soon, and the astrology section of the Evening Standard is probably not the most reliable source of information. But when the reality is hard and frustrating, living in fantasy can bring a little light relief. It is often difficult to maintain faith in something that seems so remote, so unlikely, and, at times, hopeless - but such is the nature of "faith". All I can do is plod along and keep positive that one day, maybe soon, everything will change for the better...and in the meantime, I should perhaps just stick to the crossword.
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