I read Noelle McCarthy's column in the New Zealand Herald last weekend on the misery of being a Christmas baby with some sympathy. McCarthy's birthday is on December 23, and mine is on the 27th.
Christmas babies all vie with one another to claim our day as the
worst possible one on which to be born.
Belinda Todd, my former colleague, was born on Christmas Eve. That was tough but I still think the 27th is worse than the 23rd or the 24th.
Everybody's headed off on their holidays - at least people are still around before Christmas.
By the 27th, everyone's stuffed with food and couldn't care less if they never saw another bottle of champagne.
We're all sitting around like Mr Creosote - barely able to shovel in one last wafer thin mint without exploding and vowing to give up grog for the next 10 years.
By the 28th and the 29th, people are starting to get off the couch and revving themselves up for New Year, which means people who have birthdays on those days can usually find playmates.
No, the only possible days I'm willing to concede might be worse than mine for a birthday would be those who share it with Jesus on the 25th or those who have a birthday on New Year's Day - imagine trying to get everyone excited about having a party then.
To all Christmas babies, happy birthday - and at least your friends and families can get you halfway decent presents in the sales.
