What ho, my little hair gel vanities! Last time, we left you tromping off toward the wild in your mighty boots, leaving behind a tragic love affair with a soft toy, a life in retail and a gaggle of vapid and superficial friends (two of them anyway). You were a pussy in a huff as you flounced away, flouncing being the only recognized skill you have, although I understand that you're doing quite well with 'joined up' writing. But that's enough of this fulsome praise! Let us get down to the real business at hand! The business of the vile and bitter prognostications for obnoxious October!
Drink from the dread cup, my hairdressing types! Experience the ghastly intoxication of the dark, insidious liquor. Of course, difficulty comes instanter as mischievous Mercury grinds his awful passage (eek) into evil Scorpio. The dark of night descends, pussy types! Egad! What will you do without your favourite woolly jumper to keep out the cold? And the reading lamp by light of which you colour in the pictures of birds and flowers in your favourite 'colouring' book! You miss your home and mutter morbidly about wanting to go back.
But what's this? By my sainted aunt! It's a mishap, born of inattention. You're so busy whining and complaining that you trip over an unseen obstruction, just as mischievous Mercury indecently interferes with cranky Chiron. Odds bodkins! That's a bit rum! You see, tiny hair gel loonies! As you will no doubt recall, you're wearing mighty boots. Thus, any trip you take will be a mighty fall! And so it is with this as you tumble headlong, down hill and down dale, under the nasty glare of the Full Moon in addlepate Aries, landing in a wild and desolate arena in the countryside. Slowly, painfully, you raise yourself to a sitting position, attempting to adjust disarrayed clothing and hoping desperately that your packets of 'emergency mousse' did not break during this mighty pratfall. However, a sticky feeling seeping in your nether regions tells you the news is bad, one way or another. Ugh!
Shriek and double shriek, my tiny simpering simpletons! How will you bear this indignity! With aplomb or otherwise? And just as you're set to throw a mighty tantrum and spit the dummy to a new 'world record' distance, you look around. Egad! You're miles from home and recognize none of the terrain! That's unnerving! But, worse than that, as ghastly planets fart and fornicate fantastically in loathsome Libra and your own sweet lackwit sign, you see that shapes move in the shadowy distances of the mysterious valley wherein you've landed.
Odds bodkins! What will you do? If you have a tantrum, these strangers will know what a wretched little twerp you are. But, if you don't, you'll feel out of sorts and may do something stupid anyway, though there is a school of thought that says 'stupid' is your only choice. I am the headmaster of that school. You're on the horns of a dilemma here, my tiny turnips! Fortunately, planetary shenanigans save you from the agonies of any deeper consideration of your nature by sending mischievous Mercury to roger the living daylights out of narcotic Neptune. Thus it is that you look once more at these distant figures and descry a further detail. You see they're garbed in stylish and impressive garments, wrought in engaging colours. You clap your hands with childlike glee. Instanter, you rise and race towards them to see if their hair is styled in an unusual or interesting manner that matches the fashion of their dress.
But what's this? Ye gods and little fishes! As you run, so do they begin to run as well, just as marauding Mars sticks his nasty protuberance into the closest confines of the great Sol Invicti in the lackwit Libra. In fact, the persons climb aboard a series of gaily-painted carriages, bedecked with waving pennons in a startling array of colours. The procession begins to move away. Eek! You must not let the opportunity for this strange meeting pass away from you. But have no fear! It's mighty boots to the rescue! Your powerful pedal gear sends you surging forward, eating up the distance between you and the brightly painted parade. In no time at all, you run alongside!
And, as a New Moon comes in lackwit Libra, you're invited to climb aboard by means of an elegant hand that extends towards you. You're swept up into the passing parade, just as ghastly planets advance into the evil climes of morbid Scorpio. As usual, you forget to ask the pertinent questions, such as 'who are you' and 'where are we going'. Instead, so dumbstruck are you by the beauty of the strangers and their colourful garb that you ask only if you may borrow some clothes, and also if anyone has hair gel. Haunting laughter fills the air as they caparison you in a manner like to them. Soon, you're sporting garments and stylish spikes such as you never dreamed you'd wear again after spending your money paying a mortgage and looking after that selfish and demanding soft toy.
By the gods! How wise you were to don your mighty boots and trek away from the trappings of the old life. It's as if you've died and been reborn, my tiny twits! Without going through the nasty business of terminal illness or car accidents or falling off your high heels or being fatally bored by the endless flattery of the people from the agency you pay to act as your friends in public. You feel at home with the beautiful ones as vamping Venus disports herself lustfully in the sign has domain over the unspeakable body parts and functions, evil Scorpio. It's as if you're among your own kind, the pussy tribe! Certainly they've made you welcome. And so the carts ride on towards what you see now are cliffs that overlook the ocean. You can even hear the crash of breakers, far below. And then, of course, the pertinent question occurs.
'Where are we going?' you ask the nearest beauty on your left. The creature turns and says, 'It's Halloween. We are ghosts, returning to our ancestral home, beneath the waves, for a gathering in the realms of the dead.'
For a moment, this seems like a fine and stimulating prospect till the carts come to the edge of the cliffs and the grim reality of what's been said comes home in no uncertain fashion. Great gods alive and dead! You're part of a procession that is set to hurl itself over the cliff on the very chimes of midnight at Halloween.
What will you do, little lunatics? Will you fly from this cart of the damned? Will you text an aquatic friend for swimming lessons? Or will you ask for yet another change of clothing in case a pussy accident occurs? As I'm suffering from terminal ennui and must find suitable repose in complete unconsciousness, you'll have to click here next time for a further installment of RETURN TO THE BRIDGE OF BIRDS! A FELINE TALE! For the nonce, ave atque vale, my hideous 'hair gel' vanities!