I remember that I was 14 and on holiday in Southend when I first entered a fortune teller’s tent. She took one look at my strapping frame and insisted that I was going to join the army.
I knew that I definitely wasn’t because of some underlying mental health issues – I had a phobia of getting shot. She also suggested that I should ask out my school crush and that too, didn’t end well because she was, it transpired, the only girl in school who strangely, didn’t like Wimpy Bars.
Years later, another fortune teller in Margate, said I was going to get married – but as I entered the tent with my fiancée who was wearing her engagement ring, this wasn’t breaking news.
So, you’d think I’d avoid fortune tellers but there’s always something in me, when flicking through any newspaper, that makes me momentarily stop to read my horoscope.
It’s as though I’m looking for reassurance that everything will be okay or for some guidance to what to do next by someone with supposed mystical powers who spends all day looking at the movement of planets.
Logic tells me that this is as scientific as predicting my future by tracking the movement of buses by GPS and ridiculous, but I still look.
Some “psychics” smugly predicted that Kate Middleton’s third child would be a boy. That’s not mystical. They had a 50/50 chance.
Today Russell Grant said I “should think about emigrating.” In fairness, he could’ve told me to go away like most people, proving it’s not what they say but how comfortingly they say it.
The late Jonathan Cainer had a brilliantly vague way of telling you things in a positive manner. He could tell everyone absolutely nothing in a thousand different ways and leave you feeling uplifted.
At least it’s better to be vague like him than direct like a certain famous female astrologer. No one wants to read a horoscope that says: “A stranger you meet with a gun can’t be trusted.”