Madame TeaLeaves

Madame TeaLeaves is here with some of her trademark prophetic wisdom.

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TeaLeaves Horoscope


You’ve been feeling under the weather lately, the stars feel it. Rest assured that this will not continue for long, since it has been foretold that you will soon find yourself at a Coldbusters party, dressed as your third favourite citrus fruit and discussing the advantages of a no-peel vitamin-seal strategy, with fellow sniffling fruit. By all means chat to the earnest satsuma, but under no circumstances approach the kumquat.


Your life needs rap. Say ‘rul badaz’ instead of ‘really quite bad-arse, actually’. Move to Harlem and adopt a moniker – King Kam BA or something with a pound sign in it. Call female friends ‘slootes’ and male chums ‘rockies’. Sing about the perils of being rich and attractive. Visit brothels and leave with heavier pockets than when you entered.


The moment has come for you to download Rack Stare. You might initially feel weird, but intellectual mollification will arise once you’ve realised that the point system rewards intrepid risk-taking while chastising idiocy. Suggest a Rack-Off to your college chaplain because at this point in term, you really do need more companionship than port nights on Sundays.


They found out. Mexico is probably the best option. Or Cumbria.


Once upon a Sunday, there was a tortoise that disappeared from its enclosure. Believed to have run away, it had actually been locked in a cupboard and was found thirty years later, alive and well having survived off termites. This week, take this on board as your life-allegory: are you the ill-starred termites? The capricious cupboard-locker? The thirst-quenching damp of the enclosed space? The tortoise, resilient, lonely and powerful?


Too long have you lolled in political apathy. It’s time you acquired some opinions. Listen to Moral Maze podcasts on iTunes, pausing them intermittently to boom out your own opinions with outraged voice and wheeling fist. Get your head shaved as a shout out to all the other cuts going on up and down the country. Boycott the colours red and blue, and laugh boisterously at the sight of yellow-haired people.


This week, follow instructions. Check yourself out at the self-checkout. Decide not to spray deodorant into your eyes. Choose not to snack on your printer ink cartridges. Decline from testing out your new plastic cutlery on young children. Consider the possibility that your hot Starbucks drink might be hot. 


This week, be polite. Zip up your mouth with your fingers when anyone else is speaking. Put up your hand before vocalising your gratitude. Hold doors open for errant wind gusts. If greeted by birds, greet them back in the local lingo (so much more respectful to meet them at their level).


The New Year resolutions were never going to work. Glorious as grapes are, gunning for sixty seedless a day was ambitious. Instead of bemoaning your lack of self-discipline, see your forsaken vows as evidence of your indomitable esprit, your hippy-prolo surfer soul, your and-what je ne said quoi. No resolutions can cage the beast.


There are rumours around. Nothing to worry about; just, you know, make sure they don’t make their way into print or onto the Internet. Tarnished name and all that. Scuppered opportunities. Discomfited mother. Rep.


It’s time to hit the library, Buffalo-style. The cosmic forces are troubled by the deepening worry lines on your DoS’s forehead, as well as by the minimalist aesthetic of your last piece of work. Your paragraph per hour efficiency is cruising for an improving, but at least you’re on top of the regular breaks principle.


That dream you had, when you were young and unafraid? That love would never die, that God would be forgiving? No. Ransom outstanding. Wine bottles empty. Songs forgotten. Tigers outside, thundery.

Keep up with Madame TeaLeaves on her year abroad blog

Illustrations by Ella Jackson.