On having a fortune told...

Setting common sense aside for an hour, I went and had my fortune told last night. There's an area near the Temple Street night market where fortune tellers gather together, sitting in their individual booths surrounded by photographs depicting their satisfied customers. I took a while choosing the right person: the woman chewing corn on the cob was a definite No, as was the ancient old man with the wizened face who looked suspiciously as if he'd accidentally spit all over me when talking. The young women were obviously out, and I walked past the guy with the dodgy looking comb-over as he would be impossible to take seriously. I didn't fancy the idea of a bird being responsible for my future either (one guy has a number of songbirds in an elaborate cage and they apparently send him messages regarding the fortune tellee - or whatever the correct terminology is). Then I found her: a miniature Chinese lady wearing glasses and with a face simply oozing wisdom (so I decided), who was gesticulating dramatically as she talked to another woman.
To cut a long story short (which, incidentally, is exactly what the translator was doing: my fortune teller would speak for a minute with many anxious glances and violent gestures with her pen and forefinger, and this would be whittled down to a single sentence - hope nothing too important was left out), I'm going to die at 86. Which is a fair age, I think, and gives me time to plan a formidable funeral. I apparently need to throw out a good portion of my wardrobe as black is - contrary to my belief - not my colour (neither is green nor yellow, come to that, but I'm inclined to agree with her on that front anyway), and ideally I'll have five or six children. At which point in the conversation, I nearly fell off my chair and had to be reassured that this was only the ideal situation and I didn't have to have that many if I didn't want. You're telling me. Crikey.
Anyway, this is where readers who know me will have a good chuckle at my expense. I've been told I need to learn to be more patient, stop striving to be such a perfectionist and realise that others may not share my high expectations; furthermore, I need to learn to control my anger. Otherwise, and this was repeated constantly, I will not have a good relationship with a man (although, and watch out men of Hong Kong, I will have many boyfriends...). Coming hot on the heels of an email from a past beau - what a wonderful archaic term that is - which essentially pointed this out to me, I have to admit that the whole experience was slightly surreal.
By the by, to all of those who wonder vaguely how I seem to do remarkably little but always appear to have plenty of money: sorry, but not my fault. Not only was I born in the year of the Dog, thus exaggerating this part of my make-up, but it is my destiny. Furthermore, I have many principles and morals that I cling to stubbornly and that, contrary to the belief of many readers, is one of my greatest assets. You have been told.
Oh yes, and in addition, I've not to travel alone for the next two years, putting rather a dampener on plans, but I'm sure there are ways around it. The definition, I feel, of 'travelling alone' can be somewhat flexible for starters, thus accommodating my needs as I choose. If I could avoid remote places on my own for the forseeable future that would also be ideal, and she made specific reference to the fact I mustn't - and here the pen banged down forcefully onto the table and splattered black bursts of ink - go swimming alone. Can't recall any time in the past when I've been entirely on my own on any swimming occasion so feel less limited by this restriction.
All those men born in the year of the Tiger (looking quickly, 1974 is probably the only viable one), watch out for Incoming Jane. However, those from the year of the Rat (1972 and 1984) can relax. Two years that, entertainingly enough, are associated with two particular disasters. This Chinese astrology business really has something to it, you know. Plus, I can't recall ever having relations with anyone from 1974, which just goes to show why nothing has been overwhelmingly successful to date.
I suppose the problem with getting a fortune told is that I'm going to spend the next few years with the thoughts vaguely at the back of my mind, and if I choose to ignore the advice and something goes horribly wrong as I paddle about the sea alone one day I'm going to feel pretty darn stupid. However, if I end up celebrating my 87th birthday having paid close attention to all that the lady said for my whole life, I'll be furious. I'll compromise: get rid of the green and yellow wardrobe elements, and keep the black. Travel alone, but not swim alone. Be more patient with every other student I have. Strive to be perfect only in certain areas of my life - I'll allow all those activities associated with the stereotypical Domestic Goddess to slip slightly.

But, just to be on the safe side, I think I'll stick with the men from 1974.