Hola, my airhead loonies! Last time, we left you swooning in a Victorian manner in the hallway of your hacienda in Madrid, assailed by a mysterious narcosis, the gift of a seller of seeds and nuts that arrived at your door. It seemed everything had gone to hell! Halifax was a distant dream while your new life turned to nightmare. You were plagued with financial problems and beset by domestic disputes. Your first Spanish party ended in drama and upheaval! Quite fitting for a 'Spanish' do when one thinks! In addition, your elderly paramour had retired in high dudgeon and was contemplating the mysteries of cubism by throwing dice to decide if the relationship should continue.
On reflection, it may be that falling unconscious was a proper choice in the circumstances. However, that remains to be seen! And see we shall, as the scales fall from our eyes as we consult the vile and bitter prognostications for joyless July, the current month if the seven knots in my handkerchief are anything to go by. Tremble in your frilly pantaloons, my wretched types! I am Asperitus, the awful! And I have awful things to say! Attend to me!
Marauding Mars is first cab off the rank as he barrels into the private parts of narcotic Neptune and, suddenly, in your drug-besotted state, you find yourself in an intimate act with the seed seller, now no longer at the door but on the floor beside you. And yet, the floor seems to disappear and you feel as if you're flying through the air to the heights of sexual ecstasy and beyond. Mischievous Mercury moves into perverse reverse and a thrilling, exciting whispering fills your very being as you course through the cosmos on wings of liquid gold. As jolly Jupiter launches his crapulous bulk forward, you see yourself as an eagle flying aloft in the Heavens, or so the voice tells you. While mischievous Mercury returns to neurotic Cancer and the Full Moon glowers in ghastly Capricorn and your solar twelfth house, you are transported to a realm of vision by the soft insistent tones of this seller of seeds. The voice explains that everything has gone awry because you have tried to be St Cretin, psychic detective once again.
'That's the old way,' says the voice. 'Now you must put that guise aside and rise on the thermals as Wind Eagle, visitor from the stars.' Eek! Vamping Venus disports herself lasciviously before the lustful gaze of dark Pluto and you rise from your recumbent posture. You dance lightly across the floor, waving your arms as if you have a serious itch in your pinfeathers. You waft about the hacienda, destroying all the cards and notices that pertain to the business of St Cretin. Your strip the clothing from your body, and as marauding Mars clatters into vexatious Virgo, have such a sexual romp with this seed-seller that the great days of Rome and Babylon would be put to shame. In between times, you continue to waft about the hacienda as though you have wings, lost as you are in a delirious visionary kingdom where you are an eagle. You perch fetchingly upon the banister, ready to be admired. You glare fiercely from the curtain rail, ready to seize the ill-starred rodent that would invade the eagle's kitchen.
By my sainted aunt, airhead loonies! This is clearly out of hand. And yet even the Heavens give themselves over to this farcical conceit as the great Sol Invicti clatters drunkenly into lackwit Leo and you offer your wing in marriage to this mysterious being that has liberated your avian soul from thralldom in the prison of the two legs. As the New Moon comes in that same odious sign of the Lion, you celebrate the union of body and soul, despite the fact that the elderly artist remains in a snit in the chamber, with the cadenzas of your unbridled lust just beyond hearing. And yet as mischievous Mercury moves forward and the drugs wear off, the eagle vision fades. Eek!
You wonder what it is that you have done. Yikes and double yikes! You're married to someone while your lover sulks in another room. You have incinerated all traces of your past yet you no longer feel like the visionary creature that was to be your future! Are you Wind Eagle or are you just a lunatic? Despite the fact that we know which one the smart money's on, you turn to the seed-seller next to you, your spouse! But what do you see?
Gadzooks! It's a horror too horrible to describe! I shall have to lie down instanter with my brown bottle and my silver tube. Should you wish to know the true dimension of the ghastliness you've wrought upon yourself, kindly click here next month and I shall reveal it. In the meantime, hail and farewell, my water-bearing fools.