Sunday's child gets all the breaks

It's my birthday! I was born on Sunday, August 25th, 1940.

So I'm indulging myself by recycling a post from an older blog, about Sunday's Child.My apologies to those who have seen it before.

Monday’s child is fair of face,
Tuesday’s child is full of grace,
Wednesday’s child is full of woe,
Thursday’s child has far to go,
Friday’s child is loving and giving,
Saturday’s child works hard for its living;
But the child that is born on the Sabbath day,
Is lucky and happy and good and gay.

I was always told I was born on a Sunday, so enjoyed these lines, and a second version, also favourable to us Sundaykinder, both found in Everyman’s Dictionary of Quotations and Proverbs.

Sunday’s child is full of grace,
Monday’s child is full in the face,
Tuesday’s child is solemn and sad,
Wednesday’s child is merry and glad,
Thursday’s child is inclined to thieving,
Friday’s child is free in giving,
Saturday’s child works hard for its living.

Too bad about the Saturday-born, who get perpetual hard labour in both versions, tho the second should cheer up the Wednesday babes, while casting grave aspersions on the Thursday-born. Yet a third version, from the same source, doesn’t help everyone:

Born on Monday, fair in the face;
Born on Tuesday, full of God’s grace;
Born on Wednesday, sour and sad;
Born on Thursday, merry and glad;
Born on Friday, merrily given;
Born on Saturday, work hard for your living;
Born on Sunday, you will never know want. 

But notice – Sunday’s child wins every time! And quite right too.
I checked the truth of this comforting story on a perpetual calendar, and yes, I was indeed born on a Sunday. While I was at it, I checked the days for some of my nearest and dearest, with interesting results. Try it for yourself, if you’re sure you want to know!

It’s all hokum, of course, but nevertheless fits nicely with my view of myself in the world.


Lucky? You bet - I was born in a land of plenty, to parents who wanted and loved me, and I had their undivided attention for my first four years, until my little sister was born.


Happy? Nearly all the time; having been born an optimist, my cup is usually at least half full, and often approaches the overflow mark.

Good? Weeell, that’s a matter of opinion, isn’t it? Good-mannered, I hope, which amounts to much the same thing, I suppose. But definitely not pious.
Gay? Not in the modern sense of the word, but rarely gloomy.