Setting: A chilly January morning in London. Two friends, Emily and Tom, are sitting in a café, sipping tea and watching people hurry past the window.
Emily: (sighs dramatically) You know, Tom, I knew this year was going to be bad the moment I saw the calendar.
Tom: Oh no, what’s wrong now? Did Mercury go into retro… whatever again?
Emily: (glares) Not Mercury, Tom. The year started on a Sunday! Don’t you know what that means?
Tom: That it was convenient for people who like a slow start before work on Monday?
Emily: (ignoring him) It means bad luck! Disasters, deaths, all sorts of tragedies. My nan always said, “If the year begins on a Sunday, it will end with sorrow.”
Tom: Your nan also said keeping a potato in your handbag wards off evil spirits.
Emily: And she lived till ninety-two! Coincidence? I think not.
Tom: (laughs) Emily, honestly, there’s no cosmic rule that Sunday-starting years are cursed. It’s just how the calendar falls. Every few years, January 1st lands on a Sunday.
Emily: You can laugh all you want, but just look at history! The Titanic sank in 1912 — that year started on a Monday though… wait, hang on—
Tom: (grinning) Nice try.
Emily: Alright, fine, but 2017 started on a Sunday, and didn’t we have loads of celebrity deaths that year?
Tom: True, but every year we lose people. It feels like more when famous names go — social media makes sure of that.
Emily: Still, it can’t be just chance. Sunday is supposed to be the day of the sun — power, beginnings, endings, life, death—
Tom: That’s quite a lot of responsibility for one day of the week. Poor Sunday!
Emily: I’m serious! My mum even refused to wash clothes on New Year’s Day this time. She said it washes away a family member’s life.
Tom: Emily, that’s just superstition. If laundry could determine mortality, I’d have wiped out my whole family by now.
Emily: (trying not to laugh) You’re impossible.
Tom: Look, superstitions come from people trying to make sense of random events. They looked for patterns — “Oh, this bad thing happened after a Sunday New Year, so that must be the cause.” But statistically, nothing supports it.
Emily: You and your statistics. You’d probably measure luck in percentages if you could.
Tom: If I could, I’d sell “Guaranteed Good Luck” in bottles and retire early.
Emily: (grinning) You’d call it “Scientific Fortune Formula.”
Tom: Exactly. Comes with a free calculator.
Emily: Alright, Mr. Rational, but admit it — when something unlucky happens, even you get a little uneasy.
Tom: Maybe for a second. But then I remember correlation doesn’t mean causation.
Emily: You should get that on a T-shirt.
Tom: I might. And you should get one that says, “If it starts on Sunday, I’m staying in bed.”
Emily: Don’t tempt me — I nearly did that on January first.
(They both laugh. The waitress brings their scones.)
Tom: Tell you what — if we get through this year without any apocalyptic disasters, you owe me lunch.
Emily: And if things do go wrong, I’ll tell you, “I told you so,” while eating your scone.
Tom: Deal. But no hexes, no charms, and definitely no potatoes in your handbag this time.
Emily: (smirking) No promises, Tom. One can never be too careful with Sunday years.
Science Vs Superstition 
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