Hey Brigid,
Hope you had a nice weekend.
Any news re your birth time?
Cheers.
This is stressful. I am checking into the Ultimo hotel in Sydney, the “world’s first astrology hotel”, and need to provide the exact time I was born. Only problem: no one can remember when I was born.
“It was before lunch,” says my dad. “But after breakfast.”
“I was born at brunch time,” I tell hotel staff. “Maybe 11am? Maybe 11.30am?”
But they want to know the exact time. As well as assigning you a room based on your star sign, the hotel provides a package where you get a one-on-one consultation (or “reading”, in astrology parlance) with the hotel’s astrologer.
It doesn’t work if you are vague. How will they know whether you’re Capricorn or Aquarius rising? Even 10 minutes makes a difference to your character and your destiny.
At check-in, I’m given a room key, my personalised astrology chart and a guide to where to go in Sydney based on my star sign: China Doll, Sepia, Icebergs in Bondi and Redleaf pool. All fine places. But I am nervous about seeing my actual hotel room.
Decor and astrology can be bad bedfellows.
I once stayed in a luxury retreat in New Zealand that was marketed to Hollywood celebrities for its total privacy. Costing thousands a night, you could only access the property by boat or by chopper. It was stunning – until I got inside and realised with horror that the walls were covered in hectic 1970s Californian zodiac art; blue-silver dolphins leaping through the starry night sky, a topless maiden with Medusa hair perched improbably on the pointy tip of a crescent moon.
I couldn’t imagine any celebrities, apart from Jerry Garcia, wanting to stay there.
Rooms are allocated at the astrology hotel based on star sign and, as Scorpio (mine) is known as the sexiest, most passionate star sign in the Zodiac, I brace myself for room decorated with pink, fur-lined handcuffs, a riding crop and edible undies.
Instead my room is incredibly tasteful. It’s like a room for someone who has no star-sign. The soft furnishings are in neutral colours and there are large windows looking out over to the University of Technology Sydney and Ultimo. The art on the walls is so inoffensive that I have no recollection of it as soon as I check out.
The room is spacious and light and I would highly recommend the hotel to anyone regardless of their star sign or even if they think astrology is a load of rubbish – because it is actually very nice.
Part of the service at the hotel is a personal reading with the hotel’s resident astrologer, Damian.
After we discuss that my reading may be inexact because of no one knowing when I was born, he asks: “How was your stay? What did you do?”
“I got dumplings and did some work,” I mumble, feeling like a loser.
I’m letting the sexy Scorpio rep down. Maybe I could pretend I had sex in the room. Instead, I say, “Pork and chive from Chinese Noodle House.”
I’ve never had an astrology reading before. It feels closer to a therapy session than a prediction of future events (“People often think you’re irrational or illogical but you’re not”) until Damian says, “You’re not going to like to hear this, but … ”
If there’s something that you don’t want to hear in an astrology reading, it’s the astrologer saying; “You’re not going to like to hear this, but … ”
But? But? But what? Do you know when I’m going to die? Am I ill? What? What am I not going to like to hear?
Damian takes a deep breath and says, “You are going to have another boring two or three years.”
“Another?”
According to my charts, the last two and a half years have been very dull. These are my beige, soft furnishing years. But in 2019 – watch out world, my sparkly fluoro dolphin will be leaping in the moonglow from starry seas.
Do you want porridge with that?
Its Sunday night and a friend is having a birthday dinner at a pizza restaurant in the central Victorian town of Malmsbury. “Ooh, Malmsbury,” I say. “Risque choice! It’s like hosting a dinner party in the Gaza Strip or in the exercise yard at Goulburn jail. Real badlands!”
Malmsbury, home to fewer than 1,000 people (and a youth justice centre) has been in the news of late after 15 teenagers escaped from the facility and went on the run. It hasn’t really settled down since then.
On the way to Malmsbury I make jokes about flak jackets and open-carry laws.
I also tweet about about my dangerous dinner.
I get a reply from the local MP who points out: “Malmsbury is so much more than the YJC. Food, history, art, antiques!”
@BrigidWD I hope you enjoyed your dinner. Malmsbury is so much more than than the YJC. Food, history, art, antiques!
— Mary-Anne Thomas MP (@MaryAnneThomas) February 26, 2017
It is! There’s an excellent wood-fired pizza restaurant, with a tables outside in an enchanting courtyard festooned with fairy lights. The baddest badlands are in my head.
