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November? Conceived pissed on rosé on Valentine's Day: what your birth date says about you

EVER looked at your birthdate and wondered how and in what drunken accident you were conceived? Find out: 

November – Valentine’s Day mistake

A candlelit dinner at Bella Italia and a bottle of the cheapest white and nine months later, there you were. A ‘surprise’ or ‘a bit of a f**k-up to be honest’. Every February 14th you’re reminded that you owe your existence to a £10 bunch of red roses and a handsome tip to the waiter.

September – Christmas baby

It’s the big month for babies, and why not fill that awkward Christmas-New Year gap with a quick shag on the fold-out bed at Auntie Susan’s house, and never mind the contraception? Though there are a lot of office parties in December, and you do resemble Steve from Accounts.

March – Holiday fling

Conceived on a steamy night, perhaps on MDMA at Glastonbury or a sun-lounger in Greece or with the windows open in a flat in Leicester, your birthday reveals you to be a product of sunburn and Sol lager. You’re a free spirit whose parents let you smoke weed and you’ve never descaled a kettle.

December – Pancake Day

There’s no shame in being conceived on the sexiest day of the year, your parents’ nude bodies interwined on the kitchen table in a mess of batter, golden syrup and Jif lemon. They disguised it by naming you something Christmassy like Holly.

October – bloody January

Arriving during the spookiest of months doesn’t make you an ill-omen. It’s just that post-Christmas one year, your parents had no money and nothing to do and sex is free. Or at least it seemed it until you arrived.

February – Spring baby

The sap was rising, the spring lambs bounding in the fields and your parents finished a three-bottle picnic and brought you into being up against a tree. You’re the result of an agricultural breeding programme, basically.

All other months – Boring, probably planned

If you were born in June or July, or January, you grew up in a dull household where children were expected or even wanted. You had a great childhood filled with attention and you got every toy you circled in the Argos catalogue. You smug bastard.

Conversations about mortgages: The grim rites of passage of your 30s

INTO your third decade of existence? Brace yourself for these disappointments, which are also rites of passage:

Marathons

As inevitable as death and taxes. Getting off your arse and running for 26.2 miles – or at least considering it – is a sure sign you’re wrestling with the first stages of a mid-life crisis, but at least you’re being proactive about it. By the time you reach your 40s you’ll ditch marathons for hardcore shit like escorts and cars that don’t suit you. They’re easier on your body.

Kids or divorce or both

Having kids while you’re relatively young sounds like a good idea because you’ll still have the energy. Then when you have them you’ll realise that nobody has the stamina to cope with endless shrieking, shitting and running about. The strain of raising children may also introduce you to a new, very grown-up experience: divorce.

Conversations about mortgages

Listening to people debate the merits of fixed rate APRs or whinge about stamp duty is a bleak, joyless prospect. These conversations are made even worse because they involve sums of money you can only dream of. Instead, your mortgage chats will mainly involve your parents nagging you about why you haven’t got one yet. It’s easy, Kirstie Allsopp said so.

Root canals

You haven’t been to the dentist since your teens because you thought your body was indestructible. How wrong you were. After braving a routine check-up due to a mild toothache, you’ll find yourself booked in for half a dozen fillings and a couple of root canals. They’re relatively painless because dentistry has come a long way, but the bill is still agonising.

Achieving a lingering sense of numb boredom

The uninhibited fun of your 20s is over, and the naive enthusiasm of your childhood is a distant memory. In their place will be a nagging sense of emotionless boredom, as if you’ve realised your life is short, meaningless and unremarkable. Enjoy it while you can, because this feeling is a joyride compared to the despair of middle age.

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