So she may be 33.

‘Are you excited for your birthday?’

‘Not particularly,’ Young Me sighed — ever the dramatic August Leo.

‘Oh, because you won’t be—’ Dad cleared his throat, ‘twenty-twoo-oo-hoo!’

‘That’s definitely one of the reasons,’ I admit. Then I half-mutter, ‘but also, nobody likes you when you’re twenty-three.’

There’s a pause. Then Dad asks, ‘is that a Blink song?’

When I tell you, I’ve never been so proud of him?!

I am obsessed with numbers and dates. My synaesthesia provides me with colours and shapes for each digit (i.e. threes are pillar-box ruby red, eights are the deep pink you wouldn’t expect a real ruby to be, and tens are a mature businesslike black — all of the above have rounded edges, and soft gooey centres), and while my memory struggles day to day, thanks to my meticulously kept and arguably analogue diaries I have a wealth of references to reflect on, like gel pen pushpins.

33 is obviously a double whammy of redness, but the two 3s side by side are a balance of warm and cool. Here are a few other feelings about this number — and this age I’m turning in less than a week…

3 happens to be one of my lucky numbers. Or rather, the numbers that follow me around. 2, 3 and 8. 28, 33 and 38 are also lucky ‘blends’. 22 and 23, not so much — they’ve failed me before, or been apt warnings I didn’t heed. I try and include all of these somehow when I play the lottery (which is, funnily enough, only two or three times per year — definitely less than eight) but it’s hard because I think they’re all too close together to work the system.

So… two threes. Double luck, squared? The number is attached to my address too, and was in part of my postcode growing up. How funny to think.

Recently people have been telling me they found themselves, their biggest passions and even a few true loves at 33. I’m very aware that this will happen every year, particularly as I’m now a single early-30s girlie with a flat and a cat — everyone wants to tell me it’ll ‘get better’, things are just about to change and bloom and develop into more than I could have ever expected. Or I’ll find myself starting over and connecting with more like-minded people. My social (media) algorithms are bursting with these glimmering positive reassurances. I’m taking them all with pinches of salt, preferably licked from around the rim of a cucumber marg.

More niche content currently being shoved up my nose is ‘August Leos’. Obviously I lean into the lore and hilarity of Leo season with every sunny revolve, but this extra layer on top has intrigued me this time round. August Leos are supposedly more self-aware/self-assured/self-involved (delete as appropriate, or agree to all of the above), and 8x more fun to have as a friend. We’re tinnies on the beach, charity shop wins, shouts across the crowd and sweets smuggled into the cinema.

My birthday is 01/08. I don’t know many people with that date stamp. I used to joke that the month was mine — it had to be, because it began with me. I could drag out my festivities for the entire four weeks if I wished; stretch the brightly coloured bunting across the calendar page and draw flowers, crowns, ladies and lion heads in every square with my initials tucked in each corner. I keep that Big Date Energy to myself more these days, and say I’m sharing the love around or not making it about me, when really I don’t feel the need — and secretly, I think that is the best sign for my self-worth.

What else is 33? Unfortunately my CofE school drilled it into me that someone important died in a cave on that day, or something — and the traumatised teen book nerd remembers a manically depressive mother character getting a Celtic cross tattoo on her elbow when she reached that age and was trying to seem cool to her most unfortunate kids. It’s the line in the Busted song that they changed (to 53) for the 2025 tour. The number of the house I’d like to own on that terrace, the one everyone drools over that’s only inhabited by old money or London’s ex-lovers.

It’s a new chapter, as each age is. It’s really not that big a deal, she says. She, who cried every day for the fortnight leading up to her 32nd. She, who’s asked her parents for a Shark vacuum cleaner as a ‘main present’ — the one with the pet hair attachment. She, who still hasn’t moved on from two out of three of her teenage crushes. She, who isn’t done writing through her feelings — not now, not ever.

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Thank you for reading. I have a new ‘thing’ developing currently, so stay tuned, and [whispers] please show some support when it comes…

Btw, if you enjoyed this, try these?