Great elephants and farting camels! It's you, airhead loonies. Attend to me as I prognosticate in a vile and bitter manner, thus opening your eyes to the ghastly fate that awaits you as you trudge the tragic path of your wretched lives.
Last time, we left you in Madrid, beginning a new life with an elderly artist (with a Picasso complex) and a great deal of money from the illicit traffic in prescription pharmaceuticals that you engaged in whilst incarcerated in a lunatic asylum in Halifax. We must not forget you were there under the name of Saint Cretin, psychic detective, but had recently come to call yourself Wind Eagle, largely due to your belief you were, in fact, a giant bird. It is also worth noting that you may have the authorities of Halifax on your tail (or tail feathers as the case may be), as either an escaped lunatic or an escaped avian. As we're up to date without the aid of medication, I'd best continue with the business at hand before I forget why I'm here and fall asleep.
It's jaded June, wittering nincompoops! Welcome to the Hacienda of horrors! Mischievous Mercury slithers into slimy Cancer and you potter about your home in Madrid, looking for things to do involving water and food. As marauding Mars barrels his way into loathsome Leo, your elderly partner is grumpy and bangs about the place in a state of dissatisfaction, complaining of boredom and a bad back. As the great Sol Invicti conjoins with Uranus, the idiot god, you spend a deal of money having a water feature installed, as the climate is hot. You also discover that you dislike your new partner's taste in domestic decoration and instanter decide to live in separate apartments within the house. Vamping Venus gropes the nether regions of jolly Jupiter and you advertise your powers as a psychic detective that works from home. You wonder whether you should revert to the title of 'St Cretin' or whether the new nomenclature of 'Wind Eagle' may be more likely to catch the public's eye.
As the public is no better than it ought to be, it will make no difference whatsoever. Those with more money than sense are not in short supply and couldn't even discern the difference between chalk and cheese unless they hired an informed person to explain it. However, given the production values in the modern dairy industry, there may well be no difference anyway. In the end, you opt for St Cretin, as 'Wind Eagle' may be a little abstruse for the average punter.
A Full Moon comes in silly Sagittarius and you invite a bevy of fellow dwellers in Madrid for a party, hoping to make new and wonderful friends. The water feature runs full bore but your elderly partner is more misanthropic than usual and in the midst of a right royal 'blue' period. The atmosphere in the hacienda turns sour. The guests depart drunkenly, falling over the furniture and stealing your knickknacks as they exit via the front door through a stormy row you have with your aging amour. As marauding Mars conjoins in unseemly fashion with grim Saturn, your elderly paramour retires in high dudgeon to the seclusion of a private chamber to contemplate the mysteries of cubism by playing a game of dice to decide if your relationship should survive this contretemps.
Suddenly, you seem to lose confidence in everything that you're doing. Eek! Egad! Gadzooks! And other quaint expressions to indicate surprise and alarm. You see, brainless types, it's cranky Chiron! He's up to his old tricks, moving in perverse reverse in your addlepate sign and engaging in inappropriate acts with grim Saturn and jolly Jupiter.
And what's this? By my sainted aunt, it's a clattering and grinding as the great Sol Invicti slithers into neurotic Cancer, visiting another Solstice on an overburdened world. Quelle horreur! And, horror upon horror, the Loony Nodes forsake the signs of Aries and Libra, moving into wretched Pisces (ugh) and anal Virgo (double ugh). It seems the funds you sent offshore while institutionalized in Halifax are less than readily available (eek) and you must go to work instanter to earn cash and pay the bills. But, sadly, no clients come to test your psychic powers.
Egad! Where now St Cretin? By all the gods alive and dead, my little turnips! What will you do? As you wander the hacienda in emotional disarray, a knock comes at your door. Who can it be? Vamping Venus sleazes in nitwit Gemini and a street seller stands in your portico, offering a tray of seeds and nuts for sampling. A New Moon comes in slimy Cancer and you reach innocently for a handful of caraway seeds. But as you chew on them, you're overcome by chills and fever that cause you to ache in every bone and tremble in every muscle! Eek! How discombobulating! A sudden seizure has suddenly seized you. You're unwell and on the verge of fainting when the seed peddler speaks. You lean forward to listen but hear nothing as you swoon. How terribly Victorian!
Great Caesar's ghost, what is occurring, my ghastly little persons? As I have no idea myself, you'll have to click here next month to see if I can make up something interesting, given of course that I wake up in time to do so. In the meantime, ave!